


Part Two

by Colelockian



Series: Visions [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Canon Divergence - The Great Game, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Not Beta Read, Sexual Frustration, Spoilers, Stubborn Sherlock, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:31:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colelockian/pseuds/Colelockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of Visions Part One;<br/>Following the case of The Blind Banker the boys are facing a new, faceless threat that not only haunts their every step but John's visions. Will they be triumphant yet again and come out unscathed as well as have their budding relationship survive or will everything go up in flames before their very eyes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Continually Ignored Impending Doom

**Author's Note:**

> My ultimate thanks to the transcript from The Great Game, provided by the lovely Ariane DeVere and her beautifully written transcript; http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/46716.html. Without this transcript this story would have taken a lot longer to complete. Thank you.

_“You are worthless.”_

_The hissing voice is as smooth as glass, cutting through the air to slip gently into his ears. It coils deep into his mind leaving a cold trail, ice floods his systems and he shivers._

_“He doesn’t care for you.”_

_The voice draws in echoing from the darkness, vibrating off the walls. Its pitch and cold, not a glimmer of light can pierce the black._

_“You know people can be sentimental about their pets.”_

_A thick sense of hopelessness compresses the air. Movement is impossible; everything is so heavy it feels closed in almost claustrophobic. Even breathing is weighted and each draw for oxygen is squeezed through his lungs painfully yet no noise comes from it._

_"Such a precious little solider, still fighting to be a captain. A captain of what?"_

_That whispering, taunting voice wavers in and out but it has no weight as if it comes from the air itself. There is no other body to explain it, no other life present._

_"You are disposable, a toy, a pet nothing of worth. Only a beating heart next to a brain."_

John's eyes open as the voice fades back into the blackness of his mind, nestling itself among the many sensory deprived dreams of late. He sits up rubbing at his eyes in irritation, worry, and all his other pressing emotions that never truly leave him be as of late. John wants them to be the usual dribble but it’s impossible, when the feeling that follows the dreams is unrelenting dread.

Since the first dream, months ago, these dreams have continued almost nightly. John’s even experienced the few waking visions that stop him in his tracks. He never has a moment of peace and he never lets himself be lulled into one when disappointment is only a second behind. The visions are similar but never the same. Even then John understands they are trying to tell him something, telling him something is fast approaching and it’s dangerous. He doesn’t know when or who, he just knows it will be soon.

John sighs heavily pressing his forehead to his knees that are drawn to his chest and pulling at his hair, the slight discomfort is grounding. A shuffling sound draws his attention, the bedroom door is slightly ajar with a faint light drifting in that shifts as a shadow passes through. The doctor glares letting out a heated breath in frustration.

That man, that genius of a man is too stubborn for his own good. John brings the visions up to Sherlock but the man doesn’t seem too bothered by the impending doom that the dreams per-tell.

“We are safe John,” The man had said with a bored tone, “Until something happens there’s nothing we can do.” Giving John a look of annoyance before he continued working on his current experiment or ongoing case that had his attention.

That response irritates John to no end. The man who gets bored if he goes a minute without a case telling John to wait, it’s preposterous! But John doesn’t push, he just lets the emotions simmer quietly and watching his dreams grow more intense. Though in all the pent up feelings there is one thing that brings him some relief; those few domestic moments with Sherlock.

Memories of their brief moments of true intimacy cool John’s glare and he looks away from the door. He leans back against the headboard of the bed with his eyes closed.

Since becoming a couple they had been moving at a snail's pace mostly because John is uncertain and also he doesn't want to rush anything, he’s spent so much time being alone that he didn’t want anything to jeopardize it. He knows that Sherlock despise the slowness and tries to push things along but John is relentless. It’s difficult of course but in the end his worry and stress deters him.

The floor creaks outside the door and the light shift from the kitchen again, Sherlock must be working on an experiment, doing everything he can to ignore anything he deems boring.

John sighs again, throwing himself back onto his pillow; he just wants to sleep without his dreams assaulting him. He just wants Sherlock to understand, he just wants them to be alright. There are so many other things that he wants but with blood on the horizon it seems that is the least likely occurrence in the future. Closing his eyes John lets himself drift back into the darkness, prayer that the next thing he sees will be the morning light.


	2. Drunken Confessions

Waking up, John for once in his life gets his wish; he opens his eyes to sunlight. The doctor smiles and thinks about getting ready for the day. John should be thinking about getting ready to go to work but with his stress level through the roof, the idea of going to his mundane job is the least appealing it has ever been.

He rolls over not surprised that Sherlock isn't in bed next to him. They have been sharing Sherlock's bed for a few weeks now and John wakes up alone more often than not. He doesn’t mind especially with his frequent wake ups during most nights.

Untangling himself from the sheets, wrapped around his legs, John makes his way over to the dresser where some of his clothes have made a home in. Gathering what he needs John goes to bathroom for a relaxing shower. Once clean and dressed in his most comfortable clothes, John leaves the bathroom finding Sherlock hunched over his beakers on the kitchen.

The man is dressed in sweats, an old shirt, and his dressing gown which is hanging off his shoulders. His hair is a mess of curls, evidently it had gotten a bit of attention with the typical hair fluffing.  

“Did you get any sleep?” John asks going around to make some tea.

Sherlock grunts without responding but John is so use to it he just goes about his business. As he finishes John passes a cup to the silent man and goes to sit in the living room. A hand stops him from moving too far away.

“You had a dream last night,” Sherlock says not looking up from his microscope.

John waits for him to continue but it seems that is all the man plans on saying. The doctor sighs and sits down at the only empty space at the table. “It was another one of those dreams.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

John stares at him but the silence is stretching, “You know _those_ dreams.” He tries, again failing to get an acknowledgement from Sherlock

“Damn it,” John snaps balling his hands into fists, “Are you ever going to take this seriously?”

The other man still continues to ignore him.

“Sherlock!” John barks.

Sherlock groans heavily and stands up straight, "And what am I supposed to be taking seriously?" He asks looking lazily at John with a hint of his usual annoyance.

The ex-soldier grits his teeth to keep himself from yelling again, "My dreams obviously." He replies lightly.

"Your dreams," Sherlock repeats, "Your dreams that may or may not be true. Your dreams that can be so vague that they don't even accurately give us any information when we need it. Your dreams that you put so much faith in when they have never helped you in the past. Your dreams that only give you nightmares and scenes of death for all your struggle." He pauses for the aftermath of his words with a look of finality. "So to answer your question; no I won't be taking this seriously." Sherlock turns back to his microscope, letting his words linger, and going back to ignoring the other man completely

John stares at him with wide eyes. Of all the people in his life, Sherlock had been the first to believe in his visions and now...now he didn't know what to think. Sherlock had made it perfectly clear that he put very little weight into the visions.

Without a word John heads for the front door, grabbing his coat and his shoes as he leaves. Sherlock doesn’t try to stop him.

The air outside is freezing and billows out white every time he breaths. John doesn’t care, he barely feeling the sting of not enough layers, as he hurries to the closest pub. Alcohol wasn't a usual beverage for him but in this moment he needs something, he needs to be somewhere else.

Inside the pub, its dark, smoke filled, and the air is heavy with conversation but it feels like it's the best place to be. John takes a moment to breath it all in before spotting Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade at the bar.

"Dr. John Watson?" The Inspector greets, "I have never seen you in here before."

John manages a smile. "This is definitely not my usual spot." Greg is a good man as well as a decent cop and the doctor definitely doesn’t have a problem keeping company with him

Greg returns the smile. "Well mate go ahead, take a seat, and tell me what's going on." He gestures at the stool next to him.

John glances at the other patron’s, their sparse and a bit spread out into their own small groups. "I’d rather just sit and not think about it." He tells the man, taking the chair.

Lestrade orders a couple of pints, "And the thing that drove you here is...?" He asks clearly ignoring John’s words.

"Sherlock, but we're not talking about him; he's already ruined the day enough,” He replies and quickly changes the subject; “So what are you doing here?" John asks. Their drinks arrive at that moment stalling their conversation.

Greg take a drink from the new pint before responding; "Oh I come here often, just in case."

"In case of…?" John presses taking a drink as well. The alcohol burns all the way down and warms his stomach. He's not a drinker unlike most of his family, the alcohol opens his mind up and he has no control over the visions or anything else that floods his brain.

The Detective shrugs, "You never know with Sherlock."

John chuckles dryly, "Understatement of the year." He says drinking some more. John had only been drunk twice in his life and had regretted it but now he doesn't care, he needs to drown the ache in his chest before it explodes.

The next several hours the two drink through several pints letting the day go by. They speak quietly together the whole time but neither will remember the conversations. They laugh and giggle together making all sorts of loud noises, most of the patrons around them look rather annoyed but the two don't notice nor would they care if they did.

John hadn't had this much fun in ages and it felt good to let go. There is still lingering stress though it is pushed to the back of his mind for the time being.

"So what was it?" Greg asks with a noticeable slur.

John finishes off his latest pint. "What was what?" He’s warm and his brain feels sluggish and open. Every mind in the pub is whispering to him but none loud enough to catch his attention.

The Detective gestures vaguely, "That thing, that Sherlock thing." He smiles wiggling an eyebrow suggestively.

John snorts into his drink, splattering the contents. "You know Sherlock and you know how he is…sometimes." He answers hoping that will end the conversation. Unfortunately it doesn't.

“I may have known Sherlock longer but that man is still a mystery even to me,” Greg chuckles, his eyes attempting to focus on the other man, “You are the only one I’ve ever seen get close to him, he trusts you.”

John stares at the him. True, Sherlock is a difficult man and most people can't stand him for long periods of time, most even considered him a robot or a psychopath, but seriously he does have a human side...at times. “Sherlock...is complex.” He tries but even then that word isn’t exact.

Lestrade snorts choking on the swallow he had just taken. After a coughing fit he’s able to respond in a raspy voice; “That’s one way to describe him.”

John manages a weak smile and pushes his glass across the table, “Sherlock is the only person I’ve ever trusted fully and I thought he understood me, accepted me. When I need him to be on my side, he did what Sherlock does best; he shuts down, makes you feel like a fool.”

Greg is silent for a moment before releasing a heavy sigh. “He’ll come around,” He insists, “He’s Sherlock he acts like an arse but deep down…” He drifts off without finishing, waving a hand in the air.

John smiles at him, appreciating the other man. “I truly hope so, now I believe we are too drunk to be this emotional.” He says gesturing for another round as he chugs the remains in his glass.

The Detective drains the rest of his pint. “No truer words have been spoken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's an ass but we love him and so does John. 
> 
> I really love Greg Lestrade, he's character is fluffy and vicious similar to a cat. He's just the perfect Dad of the whole Sherlock series.


	3. Gas Leak

_The flat is peaceful; it’s quiet, with early morning light drifting in. Wintery, yellowed rays warm the worn wooden floors. Even in the chaos of papers and things scattered about the place seem mellowed by the serenity._

_Sherlock doesn’t bother with the tranquility as he paces the floor in his dressing gown. Heavy bags sag under his bloodshot eyes as they dart back and forth without really seeing anything. He’s muttering to himself as he moves but none of the words are audible._

_Suddenly the world ignites soundlessly and the man is thrown to the floor with the impact as debris and the glass from the windows explodes towards him._

John snaps wake and immediately goes for his phone. His eyes are blurry and his uncoordinated movements make dialing his phone difficult. When the phone starts ringing John hopes to god the idiot actually answers. John doesn’t bother with a greeting when the line is answered; “Sherlock! Get out of the flat right now! Don’t argue, just get out!” He yells into the phone.

The other end is silent for a moment; “John?” Sherlock’s familiar voice asks.

“Sherlock, listen to me; just get out!” John shouts louder as he looks around for his clothes and shoes.

“John, is this something to do with your dreams because I…” The rest of the words are cut off as the line goes dead.

“Sherlock!” John screams. He grabs everything, somehow managing to pull it all on without falling over or injuring himself. “Greg! Greg!” John yells stumbling out of the room he had been sleeping, nearly tripping over objects, and unfamiliar furniture.

The Detective comes out of another room across from him, fully dressed, and hurrying towards the door along with John. “I heard you yelling so I figured something was up.” He says as they quickly make their way to Greg’s car.

“There was an explosion at Baker street,” John tells him as he redials Sherlock’s number but only listens to dial tone, “Calls aren’t going through.”

Running for the vehicle, they pile in, and spin the tires in their take off leaving behind the smell of burnt rubber in their wake. Greg throws on his siren and lights, speeding between cars and through traffic.They drive in silence for a few minutes and the doctor grows more anxious.

“John, I’m sure Sherlock is alright,” Greg tries to comfort, “That man isn’t going to let something as simple as an explosion be the death of him.” He jokes dryly.

John just glances at him without commenting, keeping himself occupied for the rest of the short journey. The alcohol is still very strong in his system and Greg's thoughts are bombarding his mind. Most of them are concern for the consulting detective while other drift off to think about what might be going on at work. John senses are too compromised to try and bar his mind so he grits his teeth doing his best to ignore the onslaught.

When the Detective pulls up to the closest open space in front of 221B, somehow managing to avoid the people that had gathered.

John is out of the car before it is properly stopped and sprints for the flat. The doctor ignores the crowd around the scene and rushes past the officers blocking off the street, they shout after him but none give chase.

“Sherlock!” John yells as he runs up the stairs, “Sherlock!”

Once in the living room amongst the chaos of scattered papers and shatter glass, John stops when he spots Sherlock perched in his usual chair.

The man looks uninjured and is glaring at John’s chair across from him where the other Holmes has seated himself. Sherlock had changed into his usual attire of pressed slacks and a pristine purple cuffed shirt. He has his violin in his lap and is plucking aggressively at the strings every now and then.

“John.” Sherlock greets barely glancing at the other man as he stares daggers at his brother.

“Are you alright?” John asks breathlessly looking between the two.

Sherlock blinks and looks around at the destruction as if remembering it. “Oh, yes, gas leak or something.” He answers, waving lazily out the broken windows, turning his eyes back to his brother. “I can’t.”

Mycroft scoffs, “Can’t or won’t?”

“My other cases are much too pressing to take anything else on, I can’t spare the time.” Sherlock replies smoothly, strumming lightly on his instrument.

“Forget your usual trivia, this is national importance.” Mycroft argues glancing at John as if the doctor might help him out.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, “How’s the diet?” He asks. The man did enjoy ruffling his brother at any opportunity.

Mycroft stands huffing in irritation, “Maybe you can get through to him, John.” The man suggests.

“Unlikely.” John mutters but is ignored by the two. He's used to this, they are so much alike though neither would admit it.

“Why don’t you investigate it if you’re so keen?” Sherlock snaps positioning his violin at his chin.

Mycroft puts on a disgusted face, “No, no, no I am much too busy with...matters. Besides, a case like this requires...legwork.” He shudders visibly at the notion.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, lowering his instrument before looking at John directly for the first time. “How’s Greg, John, how was the lilo?”

Mycroft pulls out a pocket watch and glances at the face. “Spare bed, Sherlock. It was the spare.” He corrects without looking at the doctor.

Sherlock scans John one more time. “Oh yes, of course.” He grumbles clearly irritated that his brother had noticed it before him.

John glares at the two, not in the mood for either of them even if they were being brilliant. Well Sherlock is always brilliant, Mycroft is just annoying.

The elder Holmes moves across the room closer to John. “Sherlock’s work seems to be booming since you two became...pals. What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine.” He asks.

Sherlock grips his violin tighter glaring murderously at his brother’s back.

“I’m never bored.” John answers honestly and spots the slight smile on Sherlock's face.

Mycroft chuckles humorlessly and turns back to his brother, pulling a folder from his jacket. He holds it out to Sherlock. The younger Holmes just ignores him and continues to pluck at his strings. Mycroft sighs, turning back to John and handing the folder to him.

The doctor raises an eyebrow but takes the folder.

“Andrew West, known by his friends as Westie, a civil servant, found dead at Battersea Station, and a apparent suicide,” Mycroft supplies.

John opens the folder and instantly images flash; _a young man on train tracks. As if in reverse the body rolls and flies through the air back on to the bridge he had been thrown from before moving forward at normal speed. The body ends up back where it had started_. The doctor blinks rapidly. “But, you wouldn’t be here if it had been a ‘suicide’?” John asks ignoring Sherlock’s searching eyes.

The man smiles seemingly amused by John, “He was involved in a new missile defense system for The M.O.D., the plans were on a memory stick.” Mycroft adds.

“Well that wasn’t very clever.” John says grinning when he hears Sherlock snicker.

Mycroft glares over his shoulder, “It’s not the only copy,” The elder Holmes states, “But the plans are secret and missing.”

John looks over at Mycroft, “You think West took the plans and wound up dead?” He asks.

Mycroft nods, “We can’t risk the possibility of the plans falling into the wrong hands,” He turns to his brother, “You’ve got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don’t make me order you.” Mycroft sharpens his gaze attempting to look threatening.

Sherlock returns the look, bringing his violin to his shoulder preparing to play. “I’d like to see you try.” He responds coolly.

The elder Holmes sneers, “Think it over.”

John holds back his laughter at the two and their dramatics as his says his goodbyes to Mycroft, ignoring Sherlock who has started sawing his bow aggressively over his strings, creating an irritating shrieking.

When the front door slams downstairs the tall man finishes his anger playing and sets the abused instrument down to glare at John’s chair where Mycroft had been.

“You’ve got nothing on, not a single case. Why did you lie?” John asks moving to perch on the coffee table in front of the other man, setting the file on Andrew West down.

Sherlock glares at the doctor as well, “And let his absurd case get in the way of something much more interesting.” He answers.

“Sibling rivalry, you’re just egging him on.” John corrects.

The genius opens his mouth to argue when the door down stairs opens and running feet on the coming towards them tells the two that something is up. Lestrade appears a few moments later, “We found some things out about this ‘gas leak’, there’s evidence being taken to Scotland Yard now, will you come?” He asks glancing between the two.

Sherlock smiles one of his charming smiles, a very fake smile, “Of course, how could I refuse?” He replies raising an eyebrow at John as if to say 'I told you so'.

Greg nods before hurrying back down the stairs.

Sherlock stands and moves to retrieve his coat, “Case John, coming?

John glances at the man, “If you want me to.” He tells him still feeling a little sore about the day before.

“Of course,” Sherlock answers pulling the coat on and wrapping the familiar blue scarf around his neck, “I’d be lost without my blogger.”

The doctor smirks and gets up to follow, now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off John’s hangover was coming on in full force. He pushes the throbbing that his skull had taken on to the bac of his mind and quickly makes his way down the stairs. Following close behind Sherlock, John pushes through the crowds still surrounding the police tap and into a waiting cab.

There’s a few minutes of silence before Sherlock clears his throat, “I noticed you wrote up the black lotus case.” He says slowly.

“Yes, and what did you think?” John asks smiling nervously.

“The Blind Banker,” Sherlock frowns, “Shotty title and you romanticize everything, leaving out the most important information.”

John glares, “The symbol over the dead bank CEO's painting, I thought it was clever. As for information, not everyone who read my blog is a genius so I had to simplify, sorry if it’s not to your standards.”

“It’s wasn’t clever, in fact it lacks an ounce of intelligence.” Sherlock argues.

The doctor shakes his head, “I thought you’d be flattered.” He sighs.

“Flattered?!” Sherlock snaps, “You made me out to be an over dramatized novel character and on top of that,” He pulls up his phone and begins to read; “Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” John tries.

The taller man glares, “Oh and I suppose you mean ignorant in a nice way. Look it doesn’t matter to me who the Prime Minister is, or who’s sleeping with whom…”

“Or if the sun goes around the Earth.” John adds in.

Sherlock huffs angrily. “That’s not important!”

“Sherlock, its primary school stuff, how can you not know?” The doctor asks.

“If I ever knew, it was information that I found irrelevant so I deleted it to make room for actual useful and needed information.” The taller man tells him.

“Fine, whatever.” John says now that his headache is pounding in his skull. He presses his forehead against the cool glass inside the cab’s window hoping to sooth his growing pain. He closes his eyes trying to relax a bit. The moment his eyes close John’s bombarded with visions; _Pink cell phone, explosion, white envelope with Sherlock’s name on it, sneakers, Carl Powers. The images rotate and speed up. Going faster and faster until they blur into streaking colors._

“John!”

John snaps out of the vision and stares out at the road on the other side of the glass, he is still inside the cab but it’s now stationary.

“John?” Sherlock calls again.

The doctor pulls away from the window and looks at the taller man whose out on the sidewalk looking at him. Without a word John slides out of the car next to Sherlock.

“Vision?” He asks as they move inside Scotland Yard.

John shrugs not wanting to talk about it at the moment especially with what Sherlock had said yesterday.

Sherlock hums but doesn’t press.


	4. Five Pips

 “There you are,” Greg greets when they arrive, “You like the funny cases, the surprising ones?” He asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Obviously.”

“You’ll love this then,” Lestrade states leading them deeper into the office, “That explosion, ‘gas leak’, was made to look like one.”

“What?” John asks as they move into the D.I.’s office where a white envelope with Sherlock’s name on it is waiting.

Greg shuts the door behind them, “The staged gas leak made a right mess, hardly anything left of the place except a strong box, a very strong box, and this was inside.” He says gesturing to the envelope.

Sherlock eyes the paper carefully, “You haven’t opened it.” He states.

“It’s addressed to you, isn’t it?” Lestrade answers, “We’ve taken every precaution; it’s been x-rayed, nothing dangerous in there.”

The tall man glance at the D.I. before picking up the envelope, “How reassuring.” He grumbles flipping the paper around to examine all sides. “Nice stationary, bohemian from the Czech Republic.”

“What?” Greg asks but is ignored.

“No fingerprints?” Sherlock asks looking over to see Lestrade shaking his head, “She used a fountain pen, a Parker Duo fold-iridium nib.” Sherlock mumbles under his breath as he looks over his name on the envelope.

“She?” John ask wondering how the man can tell the name is written by a woman’s hand.

Sherlock doesn’t look up as he flips the envelope to open it. “Obviously.” He says without explaining himself, typical.

“Obviously.” John mocks quietly, already knowing somehow that the envelope contained the pink phone.

Seconds later the phone slide from the paper into Sherlock’s hand.

“That’s the phone,” Lestrade stammered, “The pink one from the Study in Pink case.”

John and Sherlock both looked at the D.I. with the mention of the title of one of John’s blog entries. It is a case that John had written up even though he hadn’t been a part of it, well hadn’t directly been a part of. Sherlock had provided all the details on the case along with statements and reports snagged from Lestrade’s office.

“You read his blog?” The tall man accuses.

Greg shrugs, “Of course, we all do.” He answers leaning closer to look at the phone before glancing at Sherlock, “Do you really not know that the Sun goes around the Earth?” He asks in a tone that is mildly amused.

John snorts receiving a glare from Sherlock, “It doesn’t matter,” The man grumbles before moving back to the current situation. “It’s not the same phone,” Sherlock tells them, “It’s brand new, someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone.” He flips the phone over examining it carefully before turning it on.

They all gather closer peaking around Sherlock’s frame to see the screen, there is a new voice message waiting. Pressing play; it’s silent with only four short beeps and one slightly longer one.

“Is that it?” Lestrade asks.

“No,” Sherlock answers opening a photo that had been uploaded to the phone.

The room is familiar to both Sherlock and John, the doctor knows instantly where the picture was taken from but Sherlock needs a moment longer to realize the location as well.

Greg huffs, “What are we supposed to do with this?” He grumbles.

“It’s a warning.” John supplies drawing the other’s attention.

“A warning?” The D.I. presses curiously.

Sherlock lets his eyes linger on John a bit longer before directing his gaze back to the phone. “Some secret societies have a signature that they send out as a warning, five pips. This is going to happening again,” He zooms in and out of the picture on the phone, “And I’ve seen this room before.” He adds moving for the lifts.

“Wait, one moment,” Lestrade snaps, “What’s going to happen again?”

“Boom.” John tells him as they head out of the room following the long stride of Sherlock.


	5. Twelve Hours

In no time the three men are hurrying into Baker Street, relieved to see that the crowds had departed and only a small area is still taped off around the ruined building across the street from 221B.

John rushes to Mrs. Hudson’s flat to make sure she is alright before grabbing the keys to the door across the hall from her.

221C, is the only flat unoccupied, it’s the basement flat that needs a lot of work before it is livable.

Sherlock's’ examining the front lock on the door, “This has been opened recently.” He says out loud.

“Mrs. Hudson assures me this is the only set of keys for this door.” The doctor informs the man gesturing for him to move aside to unlock the door. John makes sure to be the first to enter, pulling his gun from the small of his back where it had been tucked into his waistband.

“I’m going to pretend I don’t see that.” Greg mumbles behind them drawing his own gun and taking up the rear.

Sherlock growls pushing past John, “You two are being ridiculous if the bomber was still here we wouldn’t have received the picture.” Without waiting he’s down the stairs and out of sight.

The other two follow still keeping their guns at the ready, taking each step carefully. It’s empty, of course, but John makes sure to check every room before stowing his gun.

The living room is where the picture was taken and nothing has changed except for a pair of shoes sitting in the middle of the floor. John knows exactly whose shoe they are, even if he doesn’t understand why they are important yet.

Sherlock moves closer towards the shoes.

“Sherlock,” John warns stopping the taller man before he gets too much nearer, “He’s a bomber, remember.”

Sherlock nods and slowly lowers himself down on to the floor and leaning forward over the shoes getting as close as he can without touching them. Suddenly a phone starts ringing startling everyone in the room, Sherlock brushes it off and stands. He pulls the pink phone from his pocket and answers it. “Hello?”

The moment Sherlock begins speaking, John jumps into a vision; _He’s looking at a crying woman sitting in the driver’s seat of a car. She’s shaking with a phone pressed to her head and a pager in her free hand. “H-hello…sexy.” She says slowly obviously reading from the pager._

_The woman herself is middle aged with shoulder length brown hair and bloodshot brown eyes, her face is red and covered in tear trails. Her clothes are covered by a bulky vest covered in explosives._

_“I’ve...sent...you...a little puzzle...just...to say...hi.” The woman repeats sobbing quietly between words._

_Sherlock’s low baritone can be heard rumbling through the phone but no words can be made out._

_“I’m...not crying...I’m...typing...and...this stupid...bitch...is reading it.” She reads in response to whatever Sherlock’s question was._

_He’s speaking again._

_Around the car and on the streets people are moving about, doing day to day activities complete unaware of the danger nearby. A red dot keeps traveling up and down the woman’s body as a reminder of what was at stake for her._

_“Twelve hours...to solve...my puzzle, Sherlock...or...I’m going to be...so naughty.” The woman says as her final words before hanging up the phone and watching the dot’s progress over her body, sobbing harder._

John is pulled from the vision as Sherlock hangs up the phone.

“Twelve hours,” Lestrade states glancing at the shoes, “Better get started.”

The taller man nods and pulls latex gloves from his pocket and careful lifts the shoes. Greg pulls out a plastic evidence bag from somewhere and helps Sherlock slide the shoes into the bag.

“Come on John.” Sherlock says as he quickly moves towards the door with his prize in hand.


	6. Carl Powers

Hours later; John is sitting back on a stool at Bart’s watching while Sherlock works. The first hour had been a rush of multiple samples being taken and analyzing those samples. Now Sherlock seems to be on the way to connecting the dots of what he’s found.

John had been dozing, running for coffee, and helping Sherlock by grabbing tools and equipment if needed. The last hour he had been sitting or walking around until he got bored but now he’s nearly drooling. “Who’d you suppose she was?” He asked doubting Sherlock will answer.

As if wanting to prove the doctor wrong Sherlock does indeed answer; “Who?”

“The woman, the crying woman.” John clarifies.

“Oh she doesn’t matter; she’s a hostage, no leads there.” Sherlock says with disinterest.

“For god sakes, Sherlock…” John scolds wanting to say more when a text alert sounds.

“Can you grab my phone?” The taller man asks not looking up from his microscope, seeming to have missed everything John had just said.

The doctor huffs and stands, looking around for the device, “Where is it?” He asks when he doesn’t spot the thing.

Sherlock shifts a bit on his seat, “In my pocket.”

John stares at the man in disbelief for a moment almost bewildered but moving forward anyway. Angrily he rummages around in the absurd man’s pockets until he find the phone and glances at the message. “It’s your brother.” He tells him.

“Delete it,” Sherlock says again without looking, “Missile plans are probably out of the country by now, nothing we can do about it.”

John rolls his eyes and reads the text;

**Any progress on West’s death?**

**MH**

“Well Mycroft doesn’t seems to think so, he’s texted eight times.” John says reading quickly through the others; they all asked the same question.

Sherlock sighs and sits back from the microscope finally, “Then why didn’t he cancel his dental appointment, he never texts if he can talk,” He says before adding; “West stole the plans, tried to sell them, and got his head smashed in. The only mystery about this whole thing is why Mycroft is so determined to bore me when someone else is being interesting.”

John clenches his jaw, “Try to remember there is a woman’s life on the line here.” His mind flashing to the crying woman.

“What for?” Sherlock asks turning back towards the microscope.

John is silent as his emotions switch between outrage and disbelief. His quiet battle catches Sherlock’s attention and he turns once again from the equipment.

“We’re in a hospital full of people who are dying, John. Go and cry at their bedsides and see what good it does them.” He snaps giving John a hard look as a machine nearby lets off a noise, “Ah!” Sherlock says jumping up from his chair.

John stands up and moves away from the genius knowing that if he hears anymore he might punch the man. It always surprises him how inhumane Sherlock can be when he’s focused on a case and especially an interesting case.

Molly Hooper, the hospital’s pathologist and usual supervisor of Sherlock whenever he comes to use the hospital’s labs, enters the room upon hearing the sound as well. “Let’s see what we’ve found.” She says quietly. The poor girl has an enduring crush on Sherlock and easily falls for the taller man’s charms whenever he turns them on her.

John finds her very nice and pretty but definitely wasting her time pining after Sherlock. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a man standing by the door awkwardly.

He is an unassuming man, he’s plastered himself into the corner of the room shyly but John feels that this is what the man is going for. He’s doesn’t have any distinct features or command any kind of outward presence. John doesn’t trust him and won’t be going anywhere near the man knowing he’ll cause visions without even needing to touch him.

Molly notices the man as well and her face brightens, “Jim, hi!” She says moving over to him and pulling him further in.

“Sorry, if I’m interrupting anything.” The man mutters smiling shyly glancing at the other two in the room, his eyes lingering longer on Sherlock.

“Oh no, you’re welcome any time,” She tells him, “Sherlock, this is Jim from IT, that’s how we met, office romance.” She giggles and Jim joins her.

Sherlock never takes his eyes from the project in front of him.

Jim steps closer, “Sherlock Holmes, Molly’s told me a lot about you. Are you on one of your cases?” He asks eyeing Sherlock nervously but with something else also in his eyes.

John glares at the man, hoping Sherlock can see through Jim’s rouse.

Sherlock does glance at the man, “Gay.” He says quietly though everyone can hear him.

“What?” Molly snaps.

“Nothing,” He says adding a faking cough along with a forced smile as turns towards Jim, “Umm...hey.”

Jim smiles, “Hey.” He gives a little wave knocking a petri dish off the counter. He scrambles to pick it up, setting it down with repeated apologies.

Sherlock glowers at the man casting irritated looks at John who is too busy staring accusations at Jim.

Jim moves back over the Molly, “I’d better be off, I’ll see you later.”

Molly smiles at him as he leaves. Once the door shuts firmly behind him she spins towards Sherlock. “What did you mean gay?” She asks the smile gone from her face.

“Obviously Jim is using you to keep up the appearance of heterosexuality.” He says not looking to see Molly's face becoming upset.

“There’s no way you could deduce that.” John counters for some reason.

Sherlock sighs looking over at him, “Well let's look at the facts; not only were his underwear visible above the waist of his jeans but they are a popular brand among gay men. I don't even want to go into the product in his hair.” He explains.

“I use product in my hair.” John argues.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, “but there is a difference, he uses copious amounts while you moderate. Jim is trying to make a statement. We could also bring up the fact that he left his phone number for me under this dish.” He holds up a small piece of paper.

Molly is biting her lip with watery eyes, “He's not.” She tries not sounding convinced.She looks them over a bit longer before turning and hurrying out of the room.

“That was cruel.” John tells him.

Sherlock looks at him wildly, “Cruel, wouldn't it be worse if I hadn't told her?” He asks.

John shakes his head, “No, the way you did it wasn't good.”

The man sighs rubbing his face, “Ridiculous,” He mumbles.

“So what have you found?” The doctor asks changing the subject to something the man will know more about, he moves to stand beside Sherlock.

The taller man picks up a paper that had been printed from the machine nearby; “The analysis from the particles on the shoes came back but I want to hear your assessment first.” He says gesturing at the shoes and looking at him with mild interest.

“No, I don't want to.” John says.

Sherlock frowns, “Why not?”

The doctor sighs, “Because I don't want to have you be an arse when I'm wrong and be called an idiot when you just want to see how off I am.” He replies.

“Not at all, I'm curious what you get from the shoes, plus a second opinion is very helpful.” Sherlock tries almost sounding genuine.

John knows he should just keep saying no but he’s always had a hard time telling Sherlock no. “Fine.” He huffs grabbing up one of the shoes. He takes a moment looking it over; “They're just a pair of trainers in good condition. I’d say they were new but the soles are pretty worn.”

“Good, very good,” Sherlock encourages, “What else?”

“Ummm...they’re very 80s style could be one of those retro kinds,” John says flipping the shoe around, “They’re also quite big, so a man’s?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, “But?” He presses.

“There’s traces of a name on the inside flap, adults don’t write their names on their shoes. So a kid…” John’s words trail away as he’s pulled into a new vision.

_The water rushes past, pushing and pulling. It’s easy to cut through the waves and the kicking legs help keep up speed._

_He needed to win, he always won, and that’s why he is the champion._

_Breathe, stroke, breathe, kick, stroke, breathe._

_Wait, he’s slowing down! His limbs are getting heavy; he can’t lift his head to draw a breath! His lung are constricting!_

_Panic!_

_He can’t, he can’t move! He can’t breathe, he can’t do anything! The water is pressing in becoming colder and colder, darker and darker._

_He’s afraid, won’t anyone help him?!_

_Pain, agony, his lung feel like they’re going to burst. Darkness, darkness, darkness…_

John leaves the vision coughing and sputtering, air rushes into his grateful lungs but it doesn’t ease the fit he’s having. Sherlock’s speaking to him but John can’t understand any of the words at the moment as he swallows down air. Its several minutes later before the doctor is able to get his coughing under control, he’s still wheezing and his lungs hurt but he’s able to breathe.

“John.” Sherlock is saying now near the doctor’s head.

Turning John finds that he’s sitting on the floor of the lab with Sherlock kneeling next to him. “What?” He rasps frowning and looking around.

“You blacked out and started coughing before collapsing on the floor.” The other man tells him.

“Sorry,” John whispers, his voice shot, “That was intense.”

Sherlock eyes him careful as if making sure nothing more was going to happen. “What did you see?” He asks.

The doctor glares, “Are you going to take it seriously or is it not reliable enough for you, oh wait, no the words you used were ‘not helpful’?” He snaps though it doesn’t sound as sharp as it could be with this wispy voice.

“John,” Sherlock tries to say but is interrupted by him.

“Carl Powers,” He growls before pushing himself up and away from Sherlock, "I’m going to go see Mycroft and find his stupid missile plans.” John yells over his shoulder stomping from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've noticed a lot of the dialogue is canon from the series but I do have some original tucked in there so it fits with the whole story.


	7. Freelancing

Once outside the hospital John texts Mycroft to let him know that’s he’s on his way. With the message sent a black sedan pulls up and the doctor gets in, grateful that he doesn’t have to walk.

Nearly twenty minutes later he’s being lead into a building and through many halls before finding himself in a spacious and very comfortable office where Mycroft is sitting at a desk.

The elder Holmes is examining some papers on his desk only looking up briefly when John enters. “Dr. Watson, how nice.” He greets, “How can I help you?”

John sits at the chair available in front of the desk, “I just wanted to get a bit more information on Andrew West.” He tells him.

Mycroft sets the papers on the desk and looks at John with a raised eyebrow, “Freelancing, are we now? He asks smiling with amusement.

“I want to be useful so I’ll try my best.” The doctor says.

“Very interesting,” Mycroft almost purrs, “Alright I’ll bite.”

John nods, “So Andrew West was working on a missile plan,” He states.

“Indeed, twenty-six years old, MI6, he had minor involvement in the project, and with no known terrorist affiliations,” Mycroft lists, “His fiancée was the last person to see him alive around ten thirty yesterday evening.”

“He was found at Battersea, so he got on a train?” The doctor questions.

Mycroft shakes his head, “No, he had an oyster card but it hadn’t been used.” He answers.

John thinks for a moment. “Must have got a ticket…” He suggests.

Again the elder man shakes his head, “There was no ticket on the body.”

“Then…” The doctor mutters going over other ideas.

Mycroft sighs, standing up, and moving around to the front of the desk to lean against it in front of John. “Then he ended up at Battersea with his head bashed in, how? That is the question I was hoping Sherlock can answer for me. How is he getting on?” He asks sounding mildly irritated.

John purses his lips standing up as well. “Well Sherlock is busy and doesn’t think this deserve any of his attention so I’ll be the one who will answer that question for you.” He snaps staring hard at Mycroft.

The other man is still for a moment before a smile breaks out across his face. “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter but Mycroft is an ass.


	8. Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mild sexual content.

John find himself back at 221B and checks his watch, Sherlock had three hours to solve the case of Carl Powers before the crying woman on the phone and may be even other people were caught in the explosion of a bomb. Taking a deep breath he forces himself inside.

Sherlock isn’t in the living room when John enters but he can hear him and Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, he can’t quite make out their words. Slowly he moves towards the kitchen just in time to see the elderly woman leaving through the other door to the landing.

Sherlock is looking towards him. “Poison, clostridium botulinum, one of the deadliest on the planet.” He speaks quickly moving around to his computer nearby.

“So how was it introduced into his system?” John asks knowing exactly what the man is going on about.

“The shoelaces,” Sherlock replies as he types, “The boy suffered from eczema, it would have been easy to combine it with his medication. It would have taken a bit for the poison to take effect; it would have caused paralysis then death by drowning.”

John nods, “It wouldn’t have been something they would have looked for in autopsy.” He says receiving an approving smile for the other man.

“Exactly,” Sherlock agrees, “But there are traces on the shoelaces from where he put the cream on his feet. That’s why they had to go.” He explains.

“And the murderer had them all this time,” The doctor adds starting to see a connection, “Meaning he’s our bomber.”

Sherlock nods once, “Stop the clock.” He says just as the pink phone starts to ring. Hurrying Sherlock answers it putting it  on speaker.

“Well done you, come and get me.” The crying woman speaks slowly her voice cracking with her sobs.

Sherlock straighten, looking over at John, “Where are you, tell us where you are?” He asks as John dials Lestrade.

It doesn't take long to get the location from the woman and to have a confirmation from Greg that help was on the way. Not even half an hour later John gets a call from the D.I. letting them know the woman had been taken care of and the danger had passed for now.

John sighs heavily, collapsing on his chair, and rubbing at his forehead. All day his hangover had been a nagging pain in the back of his mind letting every emotion, thought, and vision in but now that everything had calmed down it is at the forefront. “This is why I don’t drink.” He mutters nursing a cup of tea he didn’t remember making.

Suddenly there is a hand on his arm, “Thank you,” Sherlock says as he moves in front of John, “You were very helpful today.”

“Right,” John huffs clearly not believing him.

Sherlock smiles softly, “I don’t tell you nearly enough that I do value your insight.” He tells John quietly.

“Are you telling me this because you genuinely feel this way or because you don’t want me to be mad at you anymore?” The doctor asks glaring.

“A bit of both actually but mostly because I am being genuine.” Sherlock answers.

John looks him over carefully, he really wants to forgive him but at the moment he’s still feeling a bit tender by Sherlock’s words from the previous day. He still smiles and grabs Sherlock’s hand, tangling their fingers together. “I’m still mad at you.” He tells the man before pulling him down and kissing him lightly.

Sherlock huffs into the kiss but doesn't pull away, even deepening the connection.

John cups his face, opening his mind stroking over Sherlock's thoughts, and getting bits and pieces of his emotions.

“Stop that.” Sherlock grumbles sliding into John's lap without breaking their kiss.

The doctor chuckles. Sherlock had become so perceptive of his touches even the invisible ones. John drags his hands down Sherlock’s back to his arse, squeezing it gently.

The taller man moans, grinding down on John. “John...please…” Sherlock hisses through his teeth.

John hums against him, nipping along his jaw and down the man's long, gorgeous neck. It had been a long time since he had felt like this and it is quickly getting ahead of him but he doesn’t feel inclined to stop just yet. John grabs Sherlock’s hands and pins them behind his back keeping them held tight in one hand. “Please, what?” He asks using his free hand to trail down Sherlock’s clothed chest.

“I need…please...” Sherlock pants leaning forward to nibble at John’s ear.

The doctor releases the man’s hands, undoing the shirt to expose his pale chest, “Leaving you speechless, am I?” John teases scratching lightly down Sherlock’s chest, “I’ll leave you more than speechless.” He promises wickedly.

Sherlock groans loudly shaking with anticipation.

John shifts but the chair is a hindrance with the two grown men taking up the limited space. Growling with frustration the ex-soldier braces himself and lifts the other man.

Sherlock lets out a noise of surprise and wraps his limbs around John, sucking on his neck.

John focuses on what he’s doing, fighting to ignore what’s going on, he’s even considering the idea of setting Sherlock on the floor and the bed be damned. He somehow managed to make it the bedroom, tossing Sherlock on the bed; he crawls on after and slides his hands up Sherlock, cradling his face.

They stare at each other; desire reflected in both their eyes. Sherlock strokes his fingers over John’s face. It is the most tender touch John had ever experienced in his life. He surges forward claiming Sherlock’s mouth in a passionate kiss. They battle between themselves; Sherlock is the first to back down letting John own him.

John didn’t wait. He drags his hands down to Sherlock’s slacks, quickly undoing them, and detaching himself from Sherlock to pull the garment off. Underneath are a pair of tight black pants, tented by a straining erection. John moans at the sight and tugs lightly on the clothed cock.

Sherlock arches into the touch, his hands gripping the sheets, little whimpers and half-formed words are coming between his heaving breathes.

John moves to take and give pleasure from the appendage when he’s hit with a vision; _A car covered in blood, dripping over the body and puddling around the tires._

_The scene changes and the face of a shadowed man laughing, the face splits down the middle, the halves moving away from each other. The half the face of a woman starts to come through one side of the face; her eyes are sad with tears leaking from them but her mouth is smiling._

_It changes again showing a young man wearing a heavy coat with a phone pressed to his ear and a pager in his other hand. His face is red and puffy with tears as he speaks in the phone, his mouth is moving but no words can be heard._

“John!”

With the call of his name John snaps back, blinking a few times to clear the images. When his eyes are able to focus he's staring at the ceiling, the crème coloring lit dimly by a soft light.

“John!” His name comes again. Turning his head slightly, he finds Sherlock leaning over him.

“Do you have to keep scaring me?” Sherlock asks smiling wearily.

John manages a smile, “I do it on purpose just for you.” He jokes pushing himself up.

The taller man hovers closer clothed in only his pants, looking uncertain and curious but bites his tongue. He doesn’t touch John. Sherlock just sits as close as he can, their body heat mingling. His eyes are boring into the doctor and Sherlock wants to ask but isn’t sure how.

“There’s going to be another hostage.” John tells him quietly seeing the spark in Sherlock’s eye.

He nods; ”I suspected as much. This bomber is more than just a clever man. He has strategy and resources, he is building up to something...something more.” Sherlock says.

The doctor looks hard at Sherlock hearing a little of admiration in his voice and John didn’t like it. Sherlock is always on the lookout for anything that will keep him from getting bored maybe he had found that something...maybe there is someone out there who gets bored too.


	9. Try a Hobby

The next day the boys find themselves at Scotland Yard, Lestrade had just given them the rundown on the woman they had rescued. To nobodies surprise she didn’t know anything about the bomber or about anything else related to the case. As Greg finishes the pink phone makes a noise indicating a new message.

Everyone goes quiet instantly staring as Sherlock pulls it out and sets it on speaker; The recording goes with three short pips and one longer.

“First test passed,” Sherlock speaks to himself, “Here’s the second.”

A new picture is downloaded to the phone of an empty car and a plate. Lestrade takes down the number and moves off to find the info on it.

Sally Donovan, the D.I.’s sergeant, appears minutes later holding a phone in her hand.“Hey Freak,” She calls, always addressing Sherlock this way, “Call for you.”

Sherlock takes the phone acting as if he had expected the call. “Hello?” He asks.

John can’t hear the exchange but there is a voice whispering in his ears and he starts repeating the words to himself; _“It’s ok that you’ve gone to the police but don’t rely on them.”_

Sherlock is speaking behind him, “Who are you?”

_“Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers.” The voice continue to speak ignoring Sherlock’s question, “I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped his laughing.”_

“And you’ve stolen another voice I presume, who are you?” Sherlock tries again and the sound of a car passing echoes loudly through the phone. “What is that?”

John listens closely getting a glimpse of the traffic going by, _“The sounds of life Sherlock.” The voice says quietly, dramatically, “But don’t worry...I can fix that.” There’s a brief pause while the sounds of people and vehicles intensifies, “You solved my last puzzle in nine hours, this time you have eight.”_ The lines goes dead.

John rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots to help bring his mind back to the moment.

Sherlock had set the phone down and had his eyes focused on John until Lestrade stomps into the room.

“We’ve found it.” He announces.

Twenty minutes later both men are arriving on the scene of a large empty parking lot with the car from the picture. A team of forensic investigators are moving around the vehicle collecting samples and moving to looking for other evidence.

“The car was hired yesterday by Ian Monkford, banker of some kind,” Lestrade tell them quickly, “Told his wife he was going on a business trip but he never arrived.”

Sherlock and Greg approach the car and speak quietly together.

John hangs back observing and Donovan comes to stand next to him. He tries to ignore her but he can feel her looking at him every now and then.

“Still hanging around him I see.” She says smirking.

John nods, “Yeah, well.”

Donovan lets a moment pass before speaking again; “Opposites attract I suppose…”

The doctor glares at her without saying anything and folding his hands behind his back so he less tempt to hit the woman.

“Seriously you should get yourself a hobby...stamps, maybe, model trains...safer.” She continues.

John huffs and moves closer to the car hopefully to get away from the sergeant catching the end of the D.I.’s words; “It’s Monkford’s blood, the DNA checks out.” The two straighten moving away from the door.

“No body.” Sherlock says.

Lestrade confirms with a shake of his head,

“Get a sample sent to the lab.” The taller man instructs looking over to spot a crying woman and moves towards her.

John follows and watches while Sherlock pulls up a grieving act trying to convince the wife that he was a friend of her missing husband, all his statements are off and the woman is getting more upset with each word. Sherlock lets the act slip clearly having gotten all the information he was looking for and walks away.

John jogs to catch up, “Why’d you lie to her?” He asks.

Sherlock sighs, “People don’t like to tell you things but they love to contradict you. I referred to her husband in the past tense, she joined in. They’ve only just found the car.” He explains.

John blinks, “She didn’t murder her husband.” He tells him already knowing that would be too simple for this puzzle.

“No,” The consulting detective agrees, “That’s not a mistake a murderer would make.” Sherlock adds as they make their way out of the parking lot.

“Fishing!” Donovan yells after him, “Try fishing!”

John ignores her easily, “Where to now?” He asks.

Sherlock holds up a business card, “Janus Cars.”


	10. Two-Faced God

The rental lot had the more expensive cars in the city and offered it services to the wealthier patrons. John feels out of place and cheap, Sherlock on the other hand strolls around like he owns the place. They’re lead to the owner's office. John sits in the chair in front of the desk while Sherlock speaks with the owner, John doesn’t see where Sherlock words are going but he must have gotten something because they’re barely there ten minutes. The doctor strides alongside his long legged friend.

“So what you get from him?” John asks.

Sherlock shrugs, “Enough.” He answers.

John looks at him and notes the thinking face, “Come on, I know you’re dying to show off.” He presses and sees the smirk on the taller man’s face.

“Mr. Ewert is a liar.” Sherlock shares without revealing too much.

 

They head to St. Bart’s where the blood from the car is waiting for Sherlock.

John sits for a few hours watching the man work but that doesn’t keep him still, the doctor is itching for this to be over. This case is something else, John’s not sure what it is just yet but it’s dangerous. They faced danger every day with everything they did but whatever this is, it is something much worse and John wouldn’t feel comfortable until it was all over.

“Coffee?” He asks only getting a grunt as a response. John took it as a confirmation and left the room. He’d sat by so many times in this hospital that he could probably walk the halls with his eyes closed and not get lost.

The place is mostly empty on these floors so John doesn’t run into anyone while he makes his way to the coffee machine. He stares at the selections for a moment before choosing one and that’s when a vision hits him;

_Sherlock is hovering over his microscope eyeing the blood sample he’s working on when the pink phone starts to ring. The caller ID shows as ‘blocked’ but that doesn’t deter Sherlock from answering it._

_“Hello?”_

_“Janus Cars, the clue is in the name.” The voice from earlier speaks._

_Sherlock frowns slightly, “Why would you be giving me clues?” He asks curiously._

_“Why does anyone do anything?” The voice asks with a chuckle, “Because I’m bored, we were made for each other Sherlock.”_

_“Then talk to me in your own voice.” Sherlock tries._

_Again the voice chuckles, “Patience.”_

_The line goes dead and Sherlock lowers the phone with a huff._

John blinks away the vision and stares at the machine as it sinks in. The voice he’s been hearing isn’t the voice of the young man but of the bomber. John had been hearing the voice of the bomber and it had been sickeningly familiar. It is the voice from his dreams, the one that haunted him even when he is awake.

John forgets the coffee and hurries back to Sherlock. Back in the lab the man hasn’t moved from his microscope but he does look up when John enters.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks seeing the look on the doctor’s face.

John opens his mouth but shuts in again uncertain how to proceed. He could come right out and say it and have Sherlock reject him again. John straightens his face, making sure to keep his face blank. “Nothing.” He answers.

Sherlock scans him and moves away from his spot, closer to the doctor. “John, don’t keep things from me.” He says keeping eye contact with John.

“It’s nothing,” John repeats, “Nothing we need to worry about right now.” He adds hoping to ease the other man’s suspicions.

Sherlock doesn’t look convinced but seems to understand that John doesn’t want to discuss it at the moment though it would be the first time he had ever done such a thing.


	11. Confessions

The two find themselves at the Scotland Yard impound where the Monkford rental car is still being examined. Lestrade is there as well.

“How much blood was there on the seat, would you say?” Sherlock asks looking between the two men.

“How much?” Greg repeats glancing at the car, “About a pint, I’d say.”

The taller man smiles, “Not about, exactly, exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood is definitely Monkford’s but it’s been frozen.”

“Frozen?” The D.I. repeats.

“There are clear signs,” Sherlock confirms, “I believe Monkford gave a pint of blood some time ago and that’s what they spread on the seats.”

Greg rubs his face. “Who did?”

“Janus Cars, the god with two faces.” John replies, “The clue is in the name,”

Sherlock eyes snap towards John, “Exactly,” He says staring at the doctor. The consulting detective forces his attention back to Lestrade, “They provide a very special service, if you have any kind of problem, money troubles, bad marriage, whatever, Janus Cars will help you disappear. Monkford must have been having some kind of trouble, financial most likely; he couldn’t see a way out. If he were say; to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood in it…” He explains.

“Where is he then?” Lestrade sighs.

“Columbia.” John answers somehow knowing it.

Greg stares hard between the two, “Columbia?!” He snaps.

“Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had twenty thousand Colombian peso note, he told us he hadn’t been aboard recently, I saw his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That plus his arm, he recently had a booster shot, Hep-B probably, hard to tell. Conclusion; He had just returned from helping Monkford in Columbia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in on the life insurance and splits it with Janus Cars.” Sherlock says walking around the car slowly as he speaks.

“Mrs. Monkford?” The D.I. questions.

Sherlock nods with a roll of his eyes. “She was in on it, of course. Now go and arrest them Lestrade, that’s what you do best.” He finishes and turns to look at John, “We need to let our friendly neighborhood bomber know the case is solved.” With the pink phone Sherlock sends a message and only has to wait a moment before a call is coming in.

“He says you can come get me, please help me!” A tearful voice rings out from the line.

Within minutes Lestrade has people being sent out to collect the hostage and to pick up Mrs. Monkford as well as Mr. Ewert.

Sherlock and John headed home or the boarded up resembles of their home.

“Tea?” The doctor asks choosing to ignore the state of the flat. He already has too much to worry about and the repairs needed for the flat are the least of them. He doesn’t get a response from Sherlock but he goes to the kitchen anyway. It has been a really long day and John needs this to unwind. He quietly goes about making the tea.

“Are you going to tell me about them?” Sherlock asks from the living room.

John grits his teeth, “There’s nothing to tell.” He says actually rather steadily.

There’s footsteps behind him and a warmth of another body moves behind him, pressing close. “John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles through him, his breath warming John’s neck, “Please trust me.”

The doctor closes his eyes wanting to ignore Sherlock. “Don’t.” He whispers,

“Trust me.” Sherlock murmurs wrapping his arms around John.

“Why?” John asks, “You didn’t trust me.”

“I did trust you,” Sherlock huffs loudly against John’s neck; “I do trust you. That’s why I didn’t want to listen to your vision because I wanted us to have a moment, to have time.” He confesses kissing John’s nap gently.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” John presses not sure if he should believe.

“I didn’t know how,” Sherlock tells him, “I don’t know how, John. I’ve never done this before; I’ve never wanted to do this before.” He says turning the doctor to face him.

John eyes the man carefully.

“Never in my life have I ever wanted something so much than what we have. I can’t even comprehend to idea of anything happening to you, it constricts my lung to the point I can’t breathe.” Sherlock says stroking his fingers up John’s sides.

At the moment John can’t breathe, Sherlock’s words are slowly sinking in. He doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t know what to think.

Sherlock presses closer, putting his lip against John’s ear. “I spent month trying and failing to draw your attention, thinking you would go on as only my partner and friend. Now that we’ve begun this I don’t want to let it go if I don’t have to.” He murmurs.

John lets out a shaky breath and trying to bring in his emotions, “Sherlock.” He mumbles clinging to the man.

Sherlock trails his mouth along John’s neck, biting gently at the skin.

The doctor drags his fingers down Sherlock’s back wanting more but the timing wasn’t right, there is much too much going on to be exploring more of what their relationship can be. “Sherlock,” John sighs bringing back his control, “This isn’t the right time for this.”

Sherlock pulls back slightly, still keeping contact with John, “You are absolutely right.” He agrees, “We have a bomber at large who is taking hostages and sending us clues.”

“Us?” John asks a little surprised.

Sherlock smiles lowering himself to brush his mouth over John’s, “Always.”

With the tea forgotten the two go to bed cuddled together and sleep heavily until the rise of the morning sun.


	12. Disinfectant Goddess

John wakes feeling content and warm, he stretches and his arms bump against Sherlock still sleeping form. The doctor is surprised that the man is still asleep when there is an interesting case ongoing but he wasn’t going to complain. John rolls over and wraps an arm around Sherlock pulling him closer, nuzzling into his neck.

The lanky man grumbles and pushes back into the other man.

John chuckles and moves to stand up. “I’m going to make breakfast.” He tells him.

“Not hungry,” Sherlock mumbles into his pillow.

“Too bad.” The doctor says leaving the room in only his pants. He hums to himself as he pulls out pans and setups the kettle to boil. Thoughts of the bomber are in the back of his mind and John focuses on the breakfast that will probably be their only meal all day. He had just put some eggs on to scramble when he’s hit with a vision;

_Sherlock at a pool, the air is thick with chlorine, his steps echo around the room. He stops and looks around, John’s gun at his side. “Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from this.” He asks loudly waving a flash drive in his hand._

_John steps out with his hands tucked into his pockets and smiling smugly at Sherlock._

_The taller man just stops staring, if he weren’t in control of his emotions his jaw would have dropped._

_“Evening.” The doctor greets his smile widening noting the surprise that Sherlock is trying hard to suppress. John’s voice isn’t his own it’s the bombers and very uncanny. “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?_

_Sherlock straightens his face a bit, “John.” He says._

_John chuckles softly, “Bet you never saw this coming.” He asks his voice distorting._

_The scene changes to a little old woman sitting propped up in a bed with a bomber strapped to her. Her eyes are clouded from cataracts but they are leaking tears as she speaks into the phone pressed to her head. “I like to watch you dance.” She says with the voice of the bomber._

_Flashing images of a hairless cat, white floors, the face of a smiling woman, and the smell of cleaning chemicals. it starts to spin whirling into a mass of colors_

_“We were made for each other Sherlock.” The bomber’s voice echoes out and an explosion filled with screams drowns out almost everything. Pain erupts with the blinding fire and someone is shouting._

_“John!”_

John is pull from the vision to smoke and real fire as well as real pain. Sherlock is standing next to him pulling on the scalding pan in John’s hand and yelling his name. John gasps dropping the thing and staring dumbfounded at it on the floor. The charred remains of eggs are seared to the bottom of the pan and the kettle is screaming and hissing but John continues to stare at the pan.

Sherlock reaches forward, turning the kettle off and relocating it to another burner before ushering John to the bathroom.

The doctor sits heavily on the toilet lid as Sherlock takes care of his hand.

“John.” The taller man tries every now and then but John remains quiet with his head bowed.

With his hand wrapped in crisps white bandages John slowly lifts his head and careful flexes his hand, grimacing that the burning ache. “Thank you.” He mutters. This wasn’t the first time he had gone into a vision while cooking but this is definitely a first for seeing himself projected in such away in a dream. He hadn’t been the usual hostage, no this time he had been the bomber. It is unnerving.

“John.” Sherlock calls quietly cupping his cheek.

John looks into his eyes, “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock shakes his head, “You can’t control this.” He says.

“I’m having more and more vision lately,” The doctor points out, “I’m putting you in more danger.”

The consulting detective sighs, smiling. “You are more helpful than harmful.”

John chuckles, “I’m a bad influence, you’re trying to make me feel better.” He says leaning into the touch of fingers on his cheek.

Sherlock strokes his thumb across John’s cheek. “You’re just bringing out another side of me.” He corrects moving forward to kiss the other man’s forehead.

Together they help each other get dressed and ready for the day, breakfast and showers.

Sherlock is finishing up his meal when the pink phone makes a noise for an incoming voice mail. He opens it up and listens as the familiar two short and one long tones play followed immediately by a picture. “That could anybody!” Sherlock snaps eyeing the picture.

John moves to look at it, it is a picture of a woman and he instantly remembers her from his vision and who she is. “Connie Prince.” He says picking up Sherlock plate and setting it in the sink for later.

“How do you know that?” The sleuth asks glancing at John.

“Because Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly, “The doctor replies moving over to the machine and flipping it on. He moves through the channels before finding the right one. John lets Sherlock watch a moment before muting it just as the pink phone begins to ring. He sighs a goes over to get his shoes on as Sherlock speaks to the newest hostage, blind old woman.

 

Half an hour later they’re in the morgue at Bart’s with Lestrade and a hovering Molly.

“Connie Prince, forty-four, very popular had one of those make-over shows, did you see it?” Greg asks reading from a sheet.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “No,” He says moving closer to the corpse of said victim.

“She’s been dead about two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul De Santos, she cut herself on a rusty nail in the garden, nasty cut.” John supplies reading off the statements from the paperwork the D.I. had brought along with him.

Sherlock looks over the body carefully, “Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream, somethings wrong with this picture.” He says snagging the papers from Lestrade.

“What’s that?” Greg asks folding his arms across his chest while he looks on.

“This can’t be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn’t have directed us. There’s something wrong.” Sherlock explains pulling a small magnifying glass from his pocket and looks over the skin on the dead woman’s face.

The doctor heads over to the other side of the table and examines Connie’s hand. There is indeed a cut but it’s too fresh with no healing. “This wound is very deep, it would have bleed a lot but it’s clean and fresh. It was made post-mortem.” John tells them.

“How did the tetanus get in her bloodstream?” The D.I. asks looking between the two.

“John,” Sherlock says getting the man’s attention, “I want you to look into Connie’s background, family, history, everything. I need data.”

John nods, “Of course, text me if anything comes up.”

 

The doctor has the privilege of meeting Connie’s brother, Kenny, and their ‘houseboy’, Raoul. Kenny is in his fifties, balding, and wearing clothes that are much too young for him. Raoul on the other hand is a young man with a thick foreign accent. The two greet John and are easily convinced that he’s writing a story for a magazine about Connie’s family.

He sits for a few hours listening to stories about how great Connie was and how adored she was not only by her fans but by her family and friends while John is constantly removing a hairless cat from his lap. The thing just won’t leave him alone, in the end John just accepts it and allows the cat to stay.

“Tetanus is more common than people think,” John says slowly easing into the topic of her death, “It’s in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, those kinds of things. If left untreated…” He trails off as Kenny crosses the room and sits on the couch next to John, a bit too close.

Kenny is looking at him intensely, “I don’t know what I’m going to do now.” He sighs heavily, his eyes filling with tears, “I mean she left me this place, which is lovely...but it’s not the same without her.”

“Right,” John says not agreeing with the ‘lovely’ part at all but managing to keep that to himself, “That’s why my paper wants to get the full story straight from the horse's mouth, as they say. If it’s not too soon?”

“No,” Kenny tells him, “Fire away.”

The doctor nods, “Right,” He moves to pull out his notebook, rubbing at an itch on his nose. The faint scent of chemicals drifts past his nose. Curiously John scratches his nose again taking care to sniff his fingers. Chemicals, is the only thing he can smell. Clearing his throat and looking around he catches sight of the hairless cat and has a theory.

“Just give me a mo; I need to make a call.” John tells the man quickly standing and moving out to the entry hall. He moves outside to making sure he isn’t overheard. John calls Sherlock instructing him to meet at Connie’s house to test his theory.

With his idea set in motion John moves back inside explaining to Kenny that he had phones a photographer to meet them to get a picture for the article. To pass the time he asks a few mundane questions, noting nothing of concern or even noteworthy.

Luckily Sherlock is quick and arrives within the hour with a knock on the door.

“Ah that will be him.” John says.

Kenny glances over from his position in front on the mirror over the mantle, “Oh?”

The doctor stands and goes to the door to open it.

Sherlock is on the porch carrying a bag, “What’s this theory of yours?” He asks pushing inside.

“Well you tell me genius.” John says leading him into the living room where Kenny is still fiddling in front of the mirror.

“Ah Mr. Prince is it?” Sherlock asks putting on a fake accent and offering a hand.

Kenny nods shaking the hand.

Sherlock examines the hand for a moment before releasing it. “So sorry to hear about....” He says letting the sentence fade.

“Thank you, very kind.” Kenny says looking back at his reflection.

John clears his throat, “Shall we…” He suggests gesturing to the bag on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock nods and sets the bag on the couch and pulls out a camera with a large flash gun. Stalking over to Kenny he starts snapping pictures with a much too intense flash.

“Not too close, I’m raw from crying.” The man protests blinking rapidly.

Sherlock ignores him and continues to take pictures scan the room. The hairless cat decided to make an appearance and meows loudly while twisting around Sherlock’s legs. “Who’s this?”

Kenny glances down at the cat still blinking to clear his vision. “Sekhmet, named after the Egyptian Goddess.” He answers.

Sherlock snaps a picture of the cat, “How lovely, was she Connie’s?” He asked blinding the man with a few more photos.

Kenny nods and grabs up the cat just as John was moving to do the same. “A little present from yours truly.”

Sherlock keeps firing the flash directly in Kenny’s face and John rubs his fingers over the cat’s paws. The taller man eyes to the movement and his eyes widen coming to realize John’s theory.

“What do you think you are playing at?” Kenny shouts waving at the flashing in front of him with his eyes closed, “What’s going on?”

“Sorry,” Sherlock says backing up and turning the camera off.

John smirks, “I think we’ve got what we came for.” He says grabbing up his stuff while Sherlock puts away the camera.

“What?” Kenny asks focusing on the two.

“Sherlock,” John says heading for the door, “We’ve got deadlines.” The taller man is right on his heels.

Kenny follows more slowly still looking confused, “But you haven’t got anything,” He tries but isn’t heard as the two shut the front door behind them.

John chuckles to himself, “So?” He asks over his shoulder at the other man.

“An interesting theory,” Sherlock tells him with an amused smirk, “But it wasn’t the cat.”

“What?” The doctor stops, “But it’s how they got tetanus in her system, the paws stink of disinfectant. It was the brother he coated the paws. It’s a new pet, bound to be jumpy, a scratch is almost inevitable.” He argues.

The taller man chuckles, “Lovely idea, very well thought out but much too clever for the brother. No, it was revenge.” He corrects.

“Revenge?” John asks as they move down the street to a busier area to hail a cab.

“Raoul, the houseboy,” Sherlock explains, “Kenny was the butt of his sister’s jokes week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. He grew tired of it, they had a falling out, she threatened to disinherit him, but Raoul has grown accustom to a certain lifestyle so he…” The man finishes not needing to complete the sentence.

John sighs that theory is a bit more sound than his own.


	13. Looking for Connections

The two head back to Scotland Yard and Sherlock hands Lestrade a folder that he produces from his coat. “Raoul is your killer,” He tells the man, “A second autopsy shows that it wasn’t tetanus but botulinum toxin.”

Greg takes the folder and opens it, reading the info quickly. “How’d he do it?”

“Botox injection.” Sherlock answered leaning against a wall looking on with a smug look.

Lestrade looks up, “Botox?” He questions,

Sherlock nods, “Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Raoul was hired to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul’s internet purchases, “He gestures to the folder in the D.I.’s hand, “He’s been bulk ordering Botox for months, he bid his time before upping the strength to a fatal dose.” He finishes.

“Are you sure?” Greg asks closing the folder and tucking it under his arm.

“I’m sure.” The taller man confirms.

Lestrade sighs, “Alright.” He says moving off.

John looks over at Sherlock, “Sherlock, how long have you known?” He asks. This case had seemed much too easy for Sherlock and not really challenging.

“For a while,” The sleuth answers, “The bomber repeated himself, we’ve been here before with Carl Powers that was a mistake.” He explains excitedly, his eyes wide with interest.

“Sherlock! The hostage, that old woman, she’s been there this whole time!” John snaps though he isn’t surprised and that aches.

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes. “I knew I could save her, I knew we had twelve hours. I solved the case quickly and that gave me time to get on with other things, don’t you see? We’re one up on him!” He exclaimed.

John isn’t pleased and knows that it isn’t right for the man to play with another person’s life this way; he also knows that Sherlock won’t see it that way. The Consulting Detective is a great man as well as brilliant but amongst the genius of his big brain there isn’t much room left for any empathy. At times it is maddening. “Right.” He says quietly.

Sherlock eyes him carefully before pulling out the pink phone and sending out a text, it’s only a moment later when a call is incoming. “Hello?” The tall man answers.

John doesn’t hear the rest of the words when his head explodes with agony. His vision whitens and his limbs give out, he falls heavily to the floor. Screaming fills his ears and nothing can be heard over the roar. John is trying to draw a breath but he can’t, he’s gasping but never getting enough air.

“John.” Sherlock says.

John blinks focusing on the taller man. Nothing had changed; he hadn’t fallen or had any trouble breathing. It hadn’t really happened.

“The woman, she started to tell me about the bomber.” Sherlock tells him.

The doctor nods, “She’s dead.”

Around them the office had sprung into action, people are running all over the place. Phones are ringing non-stop, everyone is shouting. The two men are forgotten and ignored. So they leave.

When they get home John doesn’t say anything before going to bed, he didn’t want to dwell on anything that had happened at the moment. He already knows that the night is going to rough. John isn’t wrong, as soon as his eyes close he’s drug into a dream;

_A dead, bloated face with lifeless brown eyes stares at the sky which is a dreary grey. Slowly the sky morphs into thick dark colors like paint. A star above brightened for a moment before disappearing._

_“John.” A whispering voice chanted softly._

_A flashing light silhouetted a large figure and a distorted voice spoke about plants. All around a white room emerges from the gloom and on the wall is a single painting matching the sky above the dead face. As with the sky the bright star near the center of the painting melted._

_“Ten.” The bomber’s voice says._

_A timer appears counting down in red._

_“Nine.”_

_A small boy wearing a vest with explosives attached to it._

_“Eight.”_

_The boy whimpered fresh tears stained his face, the timer on his back getting closer and closer to one._

_“Seven.” The voice changes into that of the young boy’s._

_“Will caring about them save them?” Sherlock’s voice asks echoing._

_“Six.”_

_“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake.” Sherlock says._

_“Five.” The little boy sobs._

_The timer flashes and a laugh builds up. “I’ll burn the heart out of you,” The bomber whispers, “People do get sentimental about their pets.”_

_“Four.” The small boy’s voice slowed down, elongating the word._

_“You aren’t worthy of his attention, he is almost perfect.” The bomber breathes and the feeling of warm air breezes across skin._

_“Three.” The timer flashes again._

_Sherlock stares his eyes showing confusion and pain. “John?” He asks_

_“Two.” The boy squeaks his voice cracking with his crying._

_“There are lives at stake, Sherlock, actual human lives...and you don’t care” John’s voice waivers._

_“John.” Sherlock’s voice murmurs._

_“One.” The bomber whispers._

John wakes up, breathing heavily, and expecting his room to be in ruins. It wasn’t but there is a Sherlock in his room. The tall man is at the door and just a dark silhouette in the gloom. The doctor struggles to sit up. “Sherlock?” John asks.

Sherlock moves closer to the bed the street lamp light from outside glows dimming on him. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks.

“Not really,” The doctor answer, “But might as well.” From there John explains his dream even adding in the parts from his visions from the past few days.

Sherlock is up pacing the floor. “It sounds as if the next hostage is going to be a child and it has something to do with a painting.”

John sighs, rubbing his face. “It would seem so, but we can’t use it to solve the next case. It would look suspicious. The bomber is watching you too closely.” He tells him. Thankfully the dreams and visions had been easy to deduce, in a way, even John is able to figure it out.

The taller nods in understanding. “It still will be helpful; we’ll know what we’re looking for.” He says moving to sit on the bed next to John.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to sleep.” John says leaning into the other man.

Sherlock chuckles, “I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m trying to find a connects between the cases, it’s going slowly.” He admits kissing the top of the doctor’s head.

John looks at him from under his eyelashes, “What have you learned?”

“I started with Carl Powers,” The consulting detective starts, “I checked through all of his classmates at the time; they all were traceable with very mundane jobs.”

“The bomber could have been an older student.” John suggest.

Sherlock nods, “I looked into that as well, though I believe our bomber would have made sure his trail was covered. We won’t find him through that link,” He tells him, “Monkford didn’t have any connections other than Janus Cars, before the trouble Monkford didn’t have anything. Now Janus Cars has had quite a bit of activity, here let me show you.” He says getting up and holding out a hand to John.

The doctor smiles and takes the hand and he’s pulled down the stairs through the kitchen to the living room where the wall above the couch had been turned into an evidence board. Everything is there with newspaper clippings accompany. It is very impressive.

“See,” Sherlock jabs at a list, “Over the lifespan of the company people and staff have disappeared, ended up dead, won a lottery, moved out of the country suddenly, and received money from a wealthy relative. Most of the clients I was able to track them down and all of them managed to obtain a hefty amount directly to their accounts though they wouldn’t release this info I was able secure their banking statements.”

John lifts a brow at him, “Is this something I should be worried about?” He asks staving off his awe.

The taller man shrugs, “I covered my tracks so I doubt anything will come of this.” Sherlock replies smirking smugly.

“Great, “John says not sounding convinced, “So this money were you able to trace that?” He presses hoping the answer is no so there definitely wouldn’t be an unforeseeable problem.

Sherlock sighs, “Unfortunately that’s where I stopped. The numbers are from all over the place and I would need to have a bit more knowledge on the systems before I would be able to hack them and dig a bit deeper.” He answers.

“What about Connie and the hostages?” John asks wanting to know what could have led to the talk show host’s demise, other than the upset houseboy.

“Connie had many enemies and rivals, though none of them had it out for the woman. Raoul seems to have worked alone but the bomber had to have some sort of hand in the whole thing,” Sherlock says almost to himself, “The hostages on the other hand are completely random, other than having bombs strapped to their chest they have nothing in common. Age gaps, genders. occupations, correlating dates, nothing, and none of them had ever met; they didn’t live within the same area of the city.”

John presses closer to the man, sliding a hand down his chest. “The hostages could be random, I mean the bomber isn’t focusing too much on them besides wanting to blow up the city, they could just be minor distractions for the police. Not so much you, since you don’t care about them.” He says offhandedly.

“Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock asks looking closely at the wall.

The doctor shivers, those words echoing straight from his dream, “And you find that easy do you?” He asks genuinely curious.

Sherlock huffs looking at the man, “Yes, very. Is that news to you?” He questions eyeing him carefully.

“No,” John responds heavily.

The tall man’s eyebrows narrow and he frowns, “I’ve disappointed you.” He states.

“There are lives at stake Sherlock, actual human lives, and you don’t care.” John fires back knowing he shouldn’t be this upset about something he already understood completely.

“Don’t make people into heroes, John,” Sherlock says sharply, “Heroes don’t exist and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

John balls his fists moving back from the taller man, “Then I hope you two are happy together.” He chuckles bitterly.

The consulting detective stills staring hard at John. “What?”

“You and the bomber,” The doctor clarifies, “You were made for each other, he’s bored, and looking for someone to play his game. You, you happily go along with it, this dance because you and him are too similar. It’s amazing you’ve survive so long without him.” He hisses. The words are spilling from John faster than he can think and now all he can imagine is some faceless man with only an eerie smile whispering to Sherlock and somehow convincing the man to join him in ruining the world.

Sherlock looks helplessly at John and for once in his life is speechless.

“Right,” John growls, “I’m feeling tired again, goodnight.” Quickly he escapes up the stairs and locks himself in his room. He does lay down but there is no sleep for him and John knows neither will be getting much sleep for the next few days.


	14. Star Gazer

The next morning is a blur and the two men end up at on the banks of the Thames deducing a body that had washed up overnight. Sherlock had gotten the usual picture message from the pink phone, it had been of the bank on the Thames, and had ushered John quickly from the flat without a word about the night before. A call to Lestrade had turned up the information on a discovered body.

John can see from his position that the man had bruising around his nose and mouth, asphyxiation. It could have been a drowning but then they would have been directed towards this case. “He’s been dead about a day.” He tells them as Sherlock crouches over the body, doing his examination.

“He didn’t drown,” Lestrade supplies from next to Sherlock, “Not enough of the Thames in his lungs.”

Sherlock pulls out his magnifying glass from his pocket and looks over the bruises on the man’s face, “These are fingerprints.” He offers standing up and stowing his glass before pulling out his phone.

John takes a moment to look over the body himself but seeing nothing else. “He’s in his late thirties.”

The taller man sighs glancing down at the corpse, “He’s been in the water a long while, destroyed most of the data. I can tell you one thing; the lost Vermeer painting is a fake.” He says.

The D.I. stares with a confused look. “What?”

“We need to identify the body, find his family and associates…” Sherlock tries to say but is interrupted by Lestrade,

“Wait, wait, wait...what are you on about, what painting?” Greg questions.

Sherlock pulls on a face of innocence. “Oh you haven’t seen the posters, there all over the place, Dutch master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now it’s turned up and worth millions.” He explains showing the man his phone with the same information.

The D.I. still seems a bit lost, “What does that have to do with anything?” He asks.

“Everything,” Sherlock says pulling his phone back and swiping over the screen, “Have you ever heard of the Golem?”

“Golem?” Greg asks looking more and more confused.

“It’s a Jewish horror story, a giant man made out of clay.” John supplies.

Sherlock glances at him with a nod, “It’s also the name of an assassin, real name Oskar Dzundza, one of the deadliest assassins in the world,” he gestures at the dead man, “This is his trademark style.”

“So,” Lestrade says slowly combining the facts, “this was a hit?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the obvious, “Definitely, the Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.” He replies.

The D.I. huffs loudly throwing his hands above his head, “But what does that have to do with a painting?!” He shouts stopping passing policemen.

“Alright, alright,” John interferes, “Sherlock, you want to walk us through it?”

The taller man lets out a heavy breath, “What do we know about this corpse? The killer’s not left us with much – just the shirt and the trousers. They’re pretty formal, maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt, cheap. They’re both too big for him, so some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There’s a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie.” Sherlock explains.

“Tube driver?” Lestrade suggests.

Sherlock stares hard at the man, his face contorted,

“Security guard.” John adds.

The taller man sighs in relief, “More likely, judging by the buildup on his backside.” Sherlock says glancing down the corpse body.

The D.I. shakes his head in disbelief. “Backside?”

“Flabby,” Sherlock tells him crouching down again and gesturing, “You’d think he lead a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. A lot of walking and a lot of sitting, security guard is promising,” He smiles at John, “The watch helps too, alarm shows he did regular night shifts.”

Lestrade leans over to get a look at the watch on the dead man’s wrist. “Maybe he set the alarm like that the night before he died.” He suggests.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Sherlock chants glaring at the man, “The buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set that alarm a while ago, he routine never varied,” He eyes the corpse’s shirt closer, “There’s something more, the killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the body completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt that was tore off, so it must have been recognizable, some kind of institution.”

Sherlock reaches into the dead man’s pocket and produces a wade of tiny papers. He takes a moment to look over what little writing that can be made out. “Sodden but still recognizable…” He says thoughtfully.

“Tickets.” John mumbles.

“Ticket stubs,” Sherlock confirms standing up, “He worked in a museum or gallery, I did a quick check, the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing, Alex Woodbridge,” The man explains and shows them a report on his phone, “Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece,” Sherlock starts to pace, “Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. Conclusion; the picture’s a fake.”

Lestrade stares for a moment letting the words sink in before groaning and rubbing at his temples, “It will be a godsend when this is all over. Alright let’s get started, you go do what you normally do but keep me informed. I’ll do what I do.” He says moving away.

John and Sherlock snag a cab and head off. The consulting detective keeps pulling the pink phone out and glaring at it. “He’s broken his pattern, why?” He snaps under his breath. Sherlock leans forward and speaks to the driver, “Waterloo bridge.”

“Going to the gallery?” John asks glancing at the man.

“In a bit.” Sherlock says staring out at the passing buildings,

The doctor watching him for a moment, “Something you’re looking for?” He asks.

The tall man eyes him, “Best not to jump to conclusions just yet.” He replies looking back out the window, “Stop!” He shouts. The vehicle pulls over and Sherlock slides out, “Wait here.” He instructs the driver.

John hurries to follow the man, watching as Sherlock leaps over a waist high fence. “Sherlock.” The doctor calls after him but is ignored. He sighs and jumps the fence as well, jogging to catch up.

Sherlock is writing in his notebook as he walks and tears out the paper he's writing on before shoving it into his pocket.

The two quicken their pace as they head under the bridge. There's a small area with benches that is mostly empty with the exception of a young woman. She's definitely homeless with a sign propped up against a large bag with the words ‘Hungry and homeless’ on it. Sherlock heads for the woman and stops in front of her.

“Spare change?” She asks eyeing them carefully.

Sherlock smirks, “What for?”

“A cup of tea, of course.” She replies.

Sherlock pulls the piece of paper from his pocket, “Here, a fifty.” He says handing it to her.

The woman glances at the paper before smiling at him, “Thanks.”

He nods and turns away, walking back the way they had come.

John blinks at the woman before following quickly after Sherlock. “What was that?” He asks very confused. He is aware of Sherlock’s homeless network but he hadn't witnessed it.

“An investment,” Sherlock answers, “Now to the gallery.”

The doctor hurries to keep up, shooting curious glances back at the woman until she's out of sight.

Once they're back in the cab, it takes ten minutes more before they reach Hickman Gallery, the car pulls up to the curb and Sherlock gets out.

John slides to follow but the door shuts before he can. He looks out the open window at the other man glaring. “Sherlock.” He scolds moving to grab the door handle.

“No,” Sherlock says stopping him, “I need you to find out more about Alex Woodbridge, Lestrade will text you the address.”

John sighs and nods, “Fine.” He pulls out his phone and notes the text message and gives the address to the driver.

The vehicle takes him to a neighborhood not far from the gallery. John meets Alex’s flat mate Julie. She is a kind woman and happily lets him, showing him up the stairs to Alex’s room in the attic of the flat. The room is a mess with scattered clothes and a bed buried under an assortment of things. Near the window is a large object covered by a sheet.

John moves around the room picking up things, looks them over before putting them back, there are a lot of books and magazines on space.

Julie talks about Alex and their living together, John is half listening.

“May I?” He asks gesturing at the thing obscured by the sheet.

She nods and continues talking.

John grabs the sheet only to have it slide off on to the floor uncovering a telescope. Unlike the room this telescope is in pristine condition and clean. “Stargazer, was he?” He asks peeking through the end.

“God, yeah,” Julie replies, “Mad about it. It’s all he ever did in his spare time.”

John sees some papers on the floor next the telescope but it doesn’t make sense to him. “Did he know anything about art?” He asks.

She shakes her head, “It was just a job.” Julie answers.

“Has there been anyone else asking about Alex?” The doctor asks sensing he is at a dead end.

Again Julie shakes her head, “Though we did have a break in last night, nothing was taken. Also there’s a message on the landline for Alex.” She supplies.

John sighs finally there is something that might be a clue. “Who was it from?”

“I could play it for you if you like, I’ll get the phone.” She says hurrying out of the room. There’s shuffling down the stairs and a few moments of silence before her steps can be heard coming back. Julie comes in with the phone is hand; she’s going through the messages. Pressing play a woman starts to speak;

‘Oh, should I speak now? Alex? Love, it’s Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right. You were bloody right! Give us a call when…’ The message ends there.

“Professor Cairns?” John asks but gets a shrug from Julie is response, “Can I try a ring back?”

“Well no good, I’ve had other calls since, sympathy ones.” She replies.

John nods, he needs to find out who Professor Cairns is so he can find out what she had been talking about on the message. “You’ve been very helpful. If anything else turns up or you think of something that can help us out, call me if you would.” He tells her handing her a card with his number on it.

Julie nods, thanks him, and walks him to the door.

Out on the curb while John hails a cab, his phone rings this a new text alert. Pulling it from his pocket he notes it’s from Mycroft and already knows what’s it about but reads it anyway;

**Have you spoken with West’s fiancée yet?**

**MH**

John sighs and slides into the cab giving Andrew West’s address.


	15. Clay Man

Lucy, Andrew West’s fiancée, is a slight woman with a red face, raw from her grieving. It doesn't take much to convince her to let him in. John explains to her why he was there and it of course makes her even more upset.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Lucy argues handing John a steaming cup of tea, “He just wouldn’t do that.”

John nods in understanding, easily putting on a face of sympathy. “Stranger things have happened.” He says lightly.

She shakes her head wiping at her fresh tears. “Westie isn’t a traitor, that’s a horrible thing to say.”

“I’m sorry,” He sighs, “But you must understand…” John tries to say but it interrupted.

“Is that what they think?” Lucy asks looking at him, “His bosses?”

The doctor nods, “He was a young man, about to get married, he had debts…” He’s interrupted again.

“Everyone has debts,” She snaps, “And Westie wouldn't clear them by selling out his country.”

“And that’s why I’m trying to get as much information as I can so that Andrew’s name isn’t thought of in this way,” John tells her, “Why don’t you go back over that night?”

Lucy inhales deeply, “We were having a night in, watching a DVD, normally Westie falls asleep but he was acting strange, fidgety and quiet. Out of the blue he said he had to go see someone and leaves.” Her voice cracks as she speaks.

“Did he say who?” John presses.

Lucy shakes her head and begins to sob.

John makes her some fresh tea and makes sure Lucy has a box of tissues nearby. He’s there half an hour longer comforting her and getting her back to the point of not crying.

When she's composed, Lucy manages to get to her feet and offers to show him out. John thanks her.

Out on the doorstep a cycle courier is heading towards them. The man smiles and look between them, “Luce, you ok love?” He asks warmth and love radiating on his face.

Lucy returns the smile and nods, “Yeah.”

“Who’s this?” The man asks moving nearer obviously not trusting John.

“Dr. John Watson,” John greets shaking the man’s hand.

“This is my brother, Joe” Lucy explains, “John’s going to find out what happened to Westie.” She tells her brother, her voice hopeful.

Joe smiles at John giving him a curious look, “You with the police?” He's still not certain of John.

John shrugs, “In a way.” He answers knowing they will take any answer he gives.

“Good,” Joe says, his tone not reflecting the feeling, “Tell ‘em to get off their arse, this is ridiculous.” Though there seems to more behind the man's words.

John nods, “I’ll do my best.”

Joe nods, gently giving Lucy's shoulder a squeeze, and moves past them inside with his bike in tow.

The doctor turns back to Lucy and shakes her hand one more time, “Thank you Lucy, you’ve been very helpful. I’m very sorry for your loss.” He tells her getting a weak smile.

“He didn’t steal those things Dr. Watson,” She says, “He was a good one.”

John watches her head back inside before moving off to find a cab.

Once in a car he settles back and starts to think. His brain feels full with the two cases floating around inside; Alex Woodbridge was an aspiring astronomer and had gone to a Professor Cairns about something important. On the other hand; Andrew West had acted oddly the night he'd died before going off to see a mysterious someone. So John had two people he needed to find to fill in the missing information and found out why these two men died.

As his cab pulls up in front of 221B Sherlock comes out of the door as if to greet him.

John pays his fare and gets out. “Alex Woodbridge didn’t know anything about art, though he was an amateur astronomer.” He shares with the taller man.

Sherlock gives him a calculating look and nods, “Hold that cab.” He says before moving around the car.

John does as he’s told and watches as Sherlock talks to a person across the street, it’s the homeless woman from earlier. It looks like there’s an exchange before the sleuth heads back. He gestures for John to get in the taxi and they set off.

“Listen,” The doctor starts getting a hold of the other man’s attention, “There was a message on Alex’s phone from a Professor Cairns. It seems he went to her about something and she confirmed whatever it was.”

Sherlock glances at him, “Anything specific?”

John shakes his head. “She didn’t say on the message but if we tracked her down ourselves we could ask” He replies.

“Good work, “ The tall man says with a smile.

“Where are we going?” John asks looking out around them.

“Vauxhall Arches,” Sherlock answers, “I had my homeless network keeping an eye out for the ‘Golem’ and it seems we might have a lead.”

John nods.

 

Once they reach the tunnels they get out of the car and head towards them. Sherlock is walking a bit more slowly, buttoning up his coat, and glancing up at the sky. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

John looks at him and follows his gaze to look at the sky, a few stars can be seen through the light pollution illuminating the night sky. “I thought you didn’t care about it.” He teases with a smirk.

Sherlock returns the smile. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.”

They fall quiet as they make their way inside, Sherlock pulls out a flashlight. The halls are very dark with broken patches of light every now and then. As they move through the light picks up lumped figures pressed against the walls of homeless bedding down for the night. Coming to the end of a tunnel a flickering light at the end shows the shadow of a crouched figure. Getting closer the figure moves to stand and the shadow on the wall grows into a giant of a man.

John stares at the silhouette and grabs for the gun that isn’t there, “Shit…” He breathes glancing at Sherlock.

The man winks at him and produces John’s gun wordlessly, handing it to him.

John smiles grabbing the weapon tightly and feeling better with its weight against his skin.

Moving silently they near the corner at will give them a view of this monstrous man. Behind them there is a clatter of cans and the shadow sprints off. Sherlock doesn’t give it a moment before he’s speeding after the fleeing assassin.

“Sherlock!” John calls hurrying after them. The two with the longer legs leave the doctor behind easily, John presses forward keeping his ears open for anything that could be counted as threatening. Luckily nothing happens and he exits the tunnels to find Sherlock on the sidewalk cursing quietly.

“No, no, no, he got away in a car,” Sherlock hisses, “It will takes us weeks to find him again!”

John lets the man throw his fit, giving him time to calm down. “Or not,” He says watching as Sherlock snaps his attention to him, “I have an idea where he might be going.”

The consulting detective moves closer invading John’s space. “What?”

“I told you; someone called Alex Woodbridge a message,” The doctor tells, “There can’t be that many Professor Cairns in the book.”

 

It turns out that the Professor Cairns is an astronomy professor at the university and runs a daily Planetarium exhibit. The two hurry somehow snagging to fastest cab in the city and breaking a few traffic laws in the process. When they get out of the car at the Planetarium the two quickly make their way inside.

The building isn't the biggest and locating the viewing theater takes minutes. Inside the room a voice is speaking loudly and lights are flashing showing different images of planets before reversing noisily. The two split up noiselessly; Sherlock heads downward into the theater while John goes into the video booth.

The small room houses only the projector and the other equipment that it needs to run but John also finds Professor Cairns, dead, on the floor. The doctor looks her over and notes the forming bruises around her nose and mouth, knowing that the Golem had already been there.

“Golem!” John hears Sherlock shout over the narrator. Without another moment the doctor runs off to find the consulting detective, drawing his gun as he moves.

It is easy to find the man, especially while he’s being strangled and lifted into the air by an enormous man.

“Golem!” John screams cocking his gun and pointing it at the giant, “Let him go or I’ll kill you.”

The Golem swings around knocking the gun from John’s hand but dropping Sherlock at the same time. The doctor throws himself forward and grips the man’s massive form. He’s like a fly compared to the Golem and finds it difficult to get his arms around the body.

Without any effort the giant grapples John and flings him away throwing him into Sherlock who had been struggling to get up. John rolls over quickly but Sherlock is already on his feet and launching himself at the Golem, he barely gets a hit in before being knocked down again. The huge man leans down and grabs Sherlock around the face, beginning to tighten his hold.

John lunges on to the giant’s turned back and wraps his arms around his thick neck, hoping it will get the Golem to release Sherlock. It works. The assassin stumbles back dropping Sherlock and spins quickly only just managing to fling the doctor from his back.

John lands heavily and knocks his head into something solid, for several minutes everything is hazy and swimming. He’s lost track of Sherlock and the giant. Two gunshot go off vibrating through the doctor’s skull painfully, “Sherlock!” He yells though it sounds funny in his ears.

There’s a sound moving away from him followed by something being slammed. A few minutes pass where the only thing that can be heard is the narrator and the noisy playback.

John’s vision is starting to clear and he scans the room spotting Sherlock nearby on the floor of the stage, not moving. “Sherlock!” John shouts picking himself up. The world tilts dangerously and he falls over. John’s brain whirls but nothings making sense. He keeps trying to get up but everything is shifting and his legs aren’t cooperating.

“John.” Sherlock says in a raspy voice.

John blinks a few times to focus on the detective who now is in front of him. “Are you hurt?” He asks, his tongue feels heavy.

“A few scratches.” Sherlock answers eyeing him carefully.

“I think I have...I have a…?” John tries to say but he can’t find the word, he knows what the word is!

“Concussion,” Sherlock supplies looking slightly worried and pulls out his phone.

 

The police arrive quickly and John is gets examined by paramedics, they diagnose him with a concussion. Sherlock takes him home soon after ignoring and avoiding Detective Lestrade’s questions.

To John the whole thing is one blurred thing after another until he’s lying comfortably on the couch at 221B. He’s had concussions before but not since his rugby days and that had been a while ago. He almost forgot how confusing they are. John is trying to piece the events of the evening together when Sherlock comes over with a cup of tea.

“Here.” The man says.

John takes the cup gingerly and sipping on the warmth. He eyes Sherlock and notes the multiple cuts on him and the steadily darkening bruises forming around his throat. “You need to clean those and ice that.” John tells him gesturing at the injuries.

Sherlock nods, “I will don’t worry, first I need to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” John assures moving to set the cup on the coffee table in front to of him. A few things happen in that moment, first; John misses the table and the tea cup ends up on the floor, broken. Second; the movements makes the doctor dizzy and upsets his stomach and finally he throws everything up from the day out onto the floor. John lays half off the couch groaning as the world spins.

Sherlock sighs and pats the man on the back. “I’ll clean that up.” He chuckles.


	16. One More Puzzle

John has a rough night but the morning light brings some relief and he’s able to focus much easier, a quick shower, some hot tea, and a hearty breakfast. The only thing that remains of his headache is a dull throb.

“Are you alright, need anything?” Sherlock asks once again.

John rolls his eyes and keeps his tone steady when he answers, “I’m fine love.”

Sherlock hums at him with an unconvinced noise.

The doctor senses the other man’s irritation. He had tried to convince John to stay home and rest a bit longer but John can’t leave Sherlock when he can feel the end nearing. A darkness is hanging heavily above them and it’s only getting thicker, something it going to happen and soon.

Sherlock contacts Lestrade and has the man meet them at Hickman. The two men take their time, Sherlock’s moving a bit slower for John, though the doctor doesn’t need it. Miss Wenceslas, the curator of the gallery, joins them as the group crowds near the painting.

Sherlock hovers as close as he can to the painting without touching it. He’s muttering under his breathe, shifting back and forth. “It’s a fake, it has to be.” He says quietly to himself.

“It’s been subject to every known test to authenticate it.” The curator says smugly.

“It’s very good fake,” The consulting detective snaps before strolling over to her, “You’re in on this, aren’t you?”

Miss Wenceslas glares at him and glances at Lestrade. “Inspector, my time is being wasted.”

The pink phone begins to ring at that moment, Sherlock answers in a flourish, “The paintings a fake.” He says into the device.

There isn’t a response just the sounds of breathing can be heard.

“It’s a fake, that’s why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed.” He tries again but nothing comes from it. “Okay I’ll prove it, will you give me time?”

“Ten.” Responds the shake voice of a young boy.

“Jesus!” Greg swears, “It’s a kid!”

Sherlock’s already in front of the painting scanning it rapidly.

“Nine.” The countdown continues but time seems to have slowed down.

“Van Buren Supernova,” John whispers under his breathe, he wants to tell Sherlock but knows the man won’t thank him for it and he doesn’t even know if he provides the answer the bomber won’t just flip the switch.

“Seven.” The boy says, his little voice cracking with sobs.

Sherlock spins around from the painting and stalks over the curator. “This kid will die, tell me why the painting is a fake! Tell me!” He shouts at the woman.

Miss Wenceslas cowers glancing helplessly at the Detective, who looked worried.

“Six.”

“No, no stop,” The tall man back tracks moving back over to the painting, “Don’t tell me, it only works if I figure it out.”

“Five.”

Greg steps forward, “Sherlock, it’s speeding up.”

“Come on.” John murmurs, “Van Buren Supernova.” He stares at the bright dots near the center of the painting.

“Woodbridge figured it out,” Sherlock snaps, “It’s staring me right in the face.”

“Four.”

“Oh!” The tall man gasps, “Oh at the Planetarium, that’s brilliant!”

“Three.”

“What, what?” Lestrade presses, “What’s brilliant?”

Sherlock paces back and forth, his face split in a wide grin. “This is beautiful, I love this!” He exclaims.

“Two.”

“Sherlock!” Greg yells.”

Sherlock snatches the phone up again and shouts into the receiver, “The Van Buren Supernova.”

The silence that follows goes on forever and everyone stares wide eyed at the phone, waiting.

There’s a few breathes through the phone before; “Please is someone there, help me?” The little boy pleads.

Sherlock lets out a breathe and hands the D.I. the phone. “Go find where he is.” He says.

Lestrade doesn’t need any more encouragement, snatching the phone, he calmly questions the child on his location. The man moves off towards the door leaving the others.

Sherlock smirks smugly at the curator and gesturing to the painting. “The Van Buren Supernova,” He holds out his phone for her to see, “Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty-eight.”

Miss Wenceslas stares at him stunned.

The tall man glances at John and moves off.

The doctor eyes the woman one more time before following Sherlock. As they head for the door John’s phone rings out an alert. Pulling the device from his pocket, he sighs seeing that it’s from Mycroft.

**My patience is wearing thin.**

**MH**

 

Sherlock and the police take the curator back to Scotland Yard while John heads over to Battersea wanting to finish to Andrew West case. He still hadn’t visited the crime scene yet. At the train yard he meets on to the tube guards by the name of Jack Ryan who is kind enough to show him out to the spot where West’s body had been found.

Both Jack and John put on yellow vests and head out.

“So West’s head was found smashed open?” The doctor asks.

Jack nods, “You going to take long?” He leads him over several tracks and through some mud.

“Might, depends on what I get from here.” John replies grimacing as the mud plasters to the bottom of his shoes.

“You with the police?” The guard questions and they start following a set of tracks outward.

John shrugs, “A bit.”

Jack nods and frowns, “I hate them.”

The doctor glances at the man, “The police?” Not everyone is keen on the police but some had a reason/

“Jumpers,” Jack corrects, “People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards, I mean it’s alright for them but what about the drivers? They got to live with that.” He rants balling his fists against his sides.

“That’s one way of looking at it.” John says, being a doctor he had met his fair share of people with suicidal tendencies and it wasn’t so black and white with them.

The guard grunts his response before stopping, He gestures at the tracks that branch out into another section. “Found ‘em just there.”

John moves closer and squats down looking at the area and the tracks himself. “There isn’t any blood here, wasn’t it cleaned up?” He asks eyeing the place carefully.

“No,” Jack answers, “There wasn’t that much blood.”

The doctor looks back at the man, “His head was smashed in.”

The man nods, “But there wasn’t a lot of blood.”

John looks him over before turning his attention back to the tracks. “Okay.” He stands up again.

“Well I’ll leave you to it.” Jack says as his farewell and moves off.

John ignores the man’s departure, shielding his eyes against the bright light, he looks around at the houses and buildings on the outside of the track fencing. His eyes fall on one not far and is struck with a vision;

_Andrew West is arguing loudly with Lucy’s brother Joe._

_The next moment West is at the bottom of Joe’s stairs unmoving and bleeding._

_Joe stares at the man on the ground, his hands gripping his hair tightly._

_A flash and Joe is dragging West back up the stairs and into the house. He props the body against the window sill and sits on the couch nearby. He sits in the dark, glancing at West corpses every now and then._

_There’s another change; Joe is dragging West’s body towards the tracks._

A sudden noise jolts John back to the present, the tracks in front of him had shifted into a new position and he understood everything.

“I knew you’d get there eventually.” A voice startles John a bit.

He turns to find Sherlock not far behind him. “Joe kills Andrew West and dumped his body here. West’s head was smashed in because of the tracks moving.” John tells him.

The man smiles and nods,” Exactly.”

“How long have you been following me?” The doctor asks.

“Since the beginning,” Sherlock replies stepping closer, “You didn’t think I’d give up a case just to spite my brother.”

John gives him a look instead of answering.

The sleuth chuckles, “Come on, got a bit of burglary to do.”

The two leave the train yard to the house John had focused on earlier, which turned out to be Joe’s house. The building is a two story marionette with a staircase leading up to the front door, the stairs that had killed West.

“The missile defense plan hasn’t left the country, Mycroft would have heard something, so it would seem Joe doesn’t know what to do with them.” Sherlock tells him and they climb the stairs. He knocks and waits a moment before pulling out his lock picking gear.

“Oi!” John says looking around to see if anyone is nearby, “What if there’s someone in?”

“There isn’t.” Sherlock assures popping the lock and pushing inside.

The doctor quickly follows, shutting the door behind them, and throwing the lock back into place. “You think Joe has the memory stick?”

Sherlock moves further into the building through an entry hall that opens into a living room. “I believe he stole it off of West and intended to do something with it but didn’t know how to go about it. West confronted Joe about it and a fight broke out and Andrew ended up dead.” He responds looking around the room. Sherlock eyes the window and crouches by it.

John doesn’t need to be close to know that there’s blood dried on the sill. “But why?”

Sherlock sighs and looks up, “Well we can ask him I suppose.” He stands.

At that moment the front door can be heard opening John, on reflex grabs for the gun tucked against his back, drawing it. Quietly he stalks over to the door that looks out at the front door.

Joe is walking in with his bike balanced on his shoulder. He lifts his head and spots John, it clearly startles the man and he grabs at the bike as if thinking about throwing it.

John cocks his gun, aiming at Joe. “Don’t.” He says firmly.

The man takes another step forward but eyes the gun and thinks about it for a moment before lowering the bike onto the floor.

A few minutes later all three men are in the living room. Joe describes the mess he is in what with dealing drugs and owing money to a dangerous sort. He had taken the plans off of West at his stage and had planned on using it to pay off his debuts. When West intervened, Joe had accidently pushed the man down the stairs, killing him.

John and Sherlock retrieve the flash drive.

As if on cue a troop of Mycroft’s men move in and collect Joe.

“He’s in Mycroft’s hands now.” Sherlock says out loud when they’ve snagged a cab.

John hums, “Doubt he’ll have to worry about those debt collectors now when he’s stuck in a government prison.” He jokes dryly.

“Yes, that will be the least of his worries I’m afraid,” The tall man adds. A moment passes between them, “Well that distraction is over, the game continues.” Sherlock tells him.

John looks curiously, “We’ve heard nothing from the bomber.”

“That maybe but there is one more puzzle, there’s only been four.” Sherlock points out.

The doctor’s heart grows heavy, the end is so near but at what cost? What was going to come? John hoped it is something simple, though it’s a ridiculous waste to even consider that.

 

 


	17. Puppeteer

Night had fallen and the two men are settling in for the night. Sherlock is perched in his chair, facing the telly, and watching the nightly programs flash by. Every now and then he’s shout at the show about easily deduced details.

John watches from his spot on the couch as he starts to type up the latest case. He can’t help but laugh at the other man and the antics that are going on in front of him. “Knew it was dangerous.” John says loudly as he gets up to get a fresh cuppa.

“What?” Sherlock asks not taking his eyes from the images.

“Getting you started on crap telly.” The doctor teases.

Sherlock hums.

“Have you given Mycroft the memory stick?” John asks from the kitchen.

The other man glances from the screen, “Of course, threatened me with a knighthood...again.” Sherlock says with a tone that states that it would be the last thing he ever wanted.

John chuckles lightly, moving over to set a steaming cup near Sherlock. “We need milk, I’m just going to pop down to the Tesco.” He tells him, pecking Sherlock on the forehead, and moves over to grab his coat.

“And beans.” The tall man adds.

“And beans.” John agrees pulling on his coat.

Outside the streets are quiet and night is pressing in. A lot of the building are dark for the sleeping residents, it’s relaxing. John loves the city at this time of night, it is sluggish, seeming to last forever, and it reminds him why he can’t see himself anywhere else. Not that Sherlock is another factor in the equation.

He strolls along, taking his time, and breathing deeply. John knows he should be a bit more on edge, thinking about the bombers next step but the only thing he truly needs to focus on is Sherlock. Sherlock is the one the bomber is fascinated by.

John chews on his lip pondering, the bomber is the equivalent of Sherlock so everything he’s done so far has to be connected in some way but even Sherlock didn’t see the pattern. The whole thing is just frustrating!

The doctor is knocked from his thoughts when he hits a solid form with his shoulder. He hadn’t been paying attention and had run into another person on the sidewalk. “Sorry.” He apologies rubbing at the slight sting in his shoulder.

The man he’d run into doesn’t speak and just keeps on his way.

John looks after the guy still rubbing at his sore spot before turning to continue. It takes him a moment to realize something is wrong as his legs begin to feel heavy. Fighting against whatever is working quickly through his system John looks wildly back around at the man.

He isn’t moving away anymore, in fact he’s standing feet from John.

“What…” John tries to say as he collapses.

The cold concrete presses firmly into the doctor but he can’t move, his head had become a cinder block. He did notice the man had stepped closer and was leaning over him as the sound of a car approached. John didn’t see anything else as the drugs pushed him into darkness.

 “John.”

The echoing in John’s head is new, he isn’t use to feeling so empty, most of the time his mind has something going, but right now...nothing.

“John Watson.”

The voice is persistent, whatever it is it doesn’t matter, he’s enjoying this lightness. John feels too good to allow anything to break this sensation just yet.

“Johnny.”

But...he had things to do, something is wrong, there's a nagging...there is someone...someone important...Sher...Sherlock! John jerks to full consciousness at that and immediately regrets it. There’s an extreme bright light directed at his face, blinding and hurting his eyes. He yelps with pain and moves to block the light but his limbs aren’t responding.

Everything is groggy and sluggish, John forces his eyes closed keeping the light at bay through his eyelids. Without a moment more the light goes out. He gives it a bit before testing his eyes again.

There's spots in his vision but the room he's in is dark. John can't see but he knows he's sitting propped up against a wall, the flat surface is pressing uncomfortably into his backside. It's dark but he can make out stalls and shower heads from here. There's also the unmistakable smell of chlorine. He's in a swimming pool bathroom.

“Johnny boy!” A familiar voice greets from somewhere nearby.

John tries to turn his head but he can't, using his peripheral; he can see a figure coming closer, evading the dim light overhead. “Who?” John manages.

“Dear me,” The voice says, “Haven't I introduced myself?”

There’s a shuffle of movement and a man is now standing in front of him.

It's Jim, the man Molly had been dating, though this time he looks completely different. He's wearing an incredibly expensive suit and he's entire demeanor had morphed into someone confident, powerful, and very dangerous. The man is smirking at John. “So you do remember me,” He states casually noting the surprised face of the doctor, “John Hamish Watson, I've been looking forward to meeting you.”

John glares, “Why?”. This man is the bomber, the one playing games, murdering people, and kidnapping kids. Why would he want to meet him? At the hospital the man had been focused on Sherlock even when he was clearly being ignored. John hadn't even noticed a glance his way.

Jim clicks his tongue at John, “Because you have single handedly ruined a masterpiece with your simplicity and normalcy.” He replies in a light voice.

“Masterpiece?” The doctor asks not understanding.

“Sherlock, he was almost perfect before you came along,” Jim clarifies, “He was delightfully flirty and incredible sexy, especially walking around solving my little puzzles in that Belstaff. I've spent years teasing him.” The way he man is speaking is clear that he had an unhealthy fascination with Sherlock.

“Then you,” Jim growls, his light voice turning dark, “You came along. I thought ‘oh a pet, Sherlock will enjoy breaking him’ but that's not what happened. You...broke him.” The man crouches down in front of John.

“You and your simplicity, so boring, so normal but somehow you've drawn Sherlock towards you like a flame. I've grown tired of you,” Jim hisses, pressing a finger firmly into John's cheek, “But alas I'm not one for getting my hands dirty and besides why waste an opportunity to meet Sherlock, sadly he's been starting to get on my nerves as well.” The man is back standing up straight and grinning at the doctor.

John can feel the drugs leaving his system and is beginning to get feeling back in his limbs. Somehow he needs to warn Sherlock, this psychopath needs to be taken down. “Sherlock hasn't changed, I haven't done anything.” He tries slowly still fighting off the drugs.

“Oh don't worry Johnny I know you're worthless, a waste of flesh and so does Sherlock, you're just a shiny new toy that he hasn't yet got tired of,” Jim tells him, “We'll just put him to the test, we'll see if my old, perfect Sherlock will emerge or the pathetic excuse you've created. You've got him doing things that are counterproductive! He's kept the competition out of my game for years but now he's on my field, I can't have that it's bad for business.” At that a phone rings an alert. The man pulls a phone from his pocket and he smiles at the message.

“How thoughtful, Sherlock is a dear,” Jim says in a singsong fashion, “He's bringing me a present.”

John shifts testing his movement but keeping it subtle. He eyed the man, knowing with his burlier build Jim didn't stand a chance in a fight.

The man smirks as he looks at John and snaps his fingers.

A moment later someone else enters the room. It's a very tall, very buff man with blond hair. He had clearly been in war, he had scars scattered along his bare arms, and a still healing one right across his left eye. The man's face shows boredom with a toothpick held loosely between his lips but still looks menacing. He has a vest in his hands identical to those of the hostages. He grips John tightly by the arm and pulls him to his feet. In a few minutes the man had wrestled the vest onto John and leaves without a word.

“You'll have to excuse Sebby,” Jim says thoughtfully looking after the man, “He's all, the strong and silent type though he's very loyal and efficient, my best man.”

John doesn't say anything but knows now he'll have little chance of getting out of this alive.

Jim kneels down again in front of John. “You should give up now,” He whispers quietly, “He doesn't care for you, you're just a precious little soldier still fighting to be captain, captain of what?” He sneers.

The doctor bites his lip not trusting himself to speak without making the situation worse.

“Can't you feel it? He's getting bored of you, you will never be able to satisfy him. You're only a beating heart, something that can be distinguished,” Jim trails a finger down John's neck and presses against his chest, over his heart.

“You have nothing to offer him to keep his interest, did you really think you are worthy of his attention? Johnny boy, you're nothing.” Jim murmurs the last few words into John's ear and even bites hard on his ear lobe.

John grits his teeth, doing everything to ignore the other man.

The next second Jim is springing to his feet and clapping his hands together. “Aren't we having fun but the real fun is yet to come. Sebby!” He calls.

The brawny man comes back in with a heavy winter coat slung over his arm.

“We're going to play a little game Johnny and if you do as you're told only you'll die, how does that sound?” Jim asks as the coat is roughly forced on to John and zipped to cover the vest.

John doesn't answer the question, just staring straight ahead.

Jim steps closer pulling something from his pocket. “You're going to be my puppet Johnny and you'll repeat everything I say to you but don't forget it has to sound like you're saying it. I hope you've been practicing your acting because you're going to have to try and convince one tough crowd,” He tells John shoving an ear piece into the doctor's ear, “Not only will Sherlock be there but Sebby will be watching and if he's not satisfied he's got orders to put a bullet through your heart.” Jim finishes cheerfully.

John grimaces.

Jim smiles tapping his own ear, “My, don't you look delectable.” He says his voice rings in John's ear. The man stares at him before huffing irritated, “Johnny, I'm giving you a chance to practice so I'd take this opportunity.”

The doctor pries his mouth open, “My, don't you look delectable.” His voice is dull and robotic. The drugs are now completely out of his system.

“No, no,” Jim scolds, “That's not going to convince anyone, again.”

John repeats the words in the same tone.

Suddenly Sebby grabs John's bad shoulder, the one he had been shot in, and squeezes. Even after months of healing it is still a bit tender at times but with a powerful hand digging blunt digits into it, the pain in excruciating.

The doctor tries to muffle his screams but as more pressure is applied it's impossible. He's amazed he's still standing though that might be because of Sebby’s grip.

As suddenly as it had happened the hand is gone.

At the point John does slump to his knees breathing heavily and pushing back the pinpricks of pain remaining.

“Now Johnny, are you going to behave?” Jim asks as if talking to a child.

Looking up, John manages a nod and pushes himself to his feet his legs are shaking but hold his weight. Taking in a deep breath the doctor repeats the sentence almost sounding authentic.

The other man giggles, “That was much better, what did you think Sebby?”

Sebby doesn't answer but does gesture to his watch with a glare.

“Oh yes, our honored guest will be arriving shortly,” Jim says as if he had forgotten, “Now John you'll wait in the hall over there until I tell you.”

John watches the two men leave, letting out a shaky breath. Sherlock would be here soon and who knows what Jim will do. The doctor didn't get a lot of time when Jim’s voice is soaking his ear;

“Alright Johnny, Sherlock is almost here. Remember; make sure to be convincing Sebby is watching.”

Taking in a deep breath John steadily walks down the tilled hall, the smell of chlorine growing stronger as well as the sound of water lapping against the pool walls. Suddenly a voice is ringing off the walls;

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance, all to distract me from this.”

It's Sherlock.

“Go on Johnny don't keep him waiting.” Jim pushes, his voice cheerful.

John forces himself to relax before moving out in the pool room.


	18. Consulting Criminal

Sherlock just stops, staring. If he weren’t in control of his emotions his jaw would have dropped though the tiniest bit of confusion is creeping into his face.

“Evening.” The doctor greets forcing a smile listening as Jim gives him instructions, noting the surprise that Sherlock is trying hard to suppress. He steps slowly in front of the man and turns.

The taller man seems to won out and straightens his face a bit, “John.” He says, confusion in his tone.

John chuckles softly, managing to follow the psycho precisely; “Bet you never saw this coming.” He repeats blinking rapidly in Morse code, hoping Sebby doesn't catch on.

The taller man doesn't say anything nor does he seem to be notice the Morse.

“Did you really think I was just some broken soldier who just happened to be looking for a flat mate?” The doctor sneers, “It was almost too easy to slip into your life, taking on this roll, and I nearly started to believe it myself.”

Sherlock is so still, staring, and holding the memory stick precariously in his hand. “John.”

The tone that Sherlock speaks with nearly breaks John, it speaks with more emotion than the doctor has ever seen the man show. The betrayal, confusion, pain, anger.

Tentatively the doctor reaches out with his mind, gently caressing Sherlock's whirling thoughts.

The man physically flinches, throwing up a barrier.

John eases himself past hoping Sherlock will hear him chanting, “It's not me, it's not me it's not me.”

Though it seems Sherlock isn't listening. “John,” He said quietly yet again.

Jim seems to have tired of this bit of theatrics. He sighs, “Alright doctor, I'm getting bored. Open your coat and say…”

John carefully unzips his coat, he feels Sherlock's eyes on him as he moves, he spreads his arms so the man gets a good look at the vest. “ What would you like me to make him say?” He parrots letting Jim’s voice drop.

Sherlock's face morphs, talking on several different emotions, and the most substantial one is relief before he masks himself completely.

“Gottle o’ geer ... gottle o’ geer ... gottle o’ geer.” John mutters repeating the words whispered in his ear.

“Stop it.” The tall man snaps.

The doctor hears Jim chuckle. “Nice touch this, the pool where little Carl Powers died. I stopped him,” John echoes feeling acid burning his tongue, “I can stop John Watson too, stop his heart.” A red sniper dot appears on John's chest, emphasizing the threat.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the dot and glances around. “Who are you?” He asks clearly wanting to take focus off of John.

A door behind the doctor opens, echoing loudly off the walls. “I gave you my number, I thought you might call.” Jim says a bit pathetically pulling on the persona of Jim from the hospital. He strolls closer, his steps tapping all around them. “Is that a Browning in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” Jim asks stopping not far from John.

Sherlock reaches into his pocket without talking his eyes off of Jim and pulls out John's gun. “Both.” He replies aiming it.

“Jim Moriarty, hi,” Jim greets in a singsong voice, “Jim from IT, Jim from the hospital?” He tries sounding a bit disappointed, “Did I make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was the point.”

Sherlock glances at the snipers dot and follows to a position over his shoulder and much farther above them.

“I don't like to get my hands dirty,” Jim states with a shrug, “I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see...like you.” He steps closer to John.

Sherlock adjusts his grip on the gun. “Raoul De Santos, Ian Monkford, Consulting Criminal.” He says, “Brilliant.”

Jim hums in amusement. “Isn’t it? I knew you would like it. No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will.” He muses proudly.

“I did,” Sherlock tells him smugly.

“You've come to closest,” Jim agrees, “Now you're in my way.”

The tall man smirks, “Thank you.” He says.

Jim chuckles darkly. “It wasn't a compliment.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, “Yes it was.”

“Fine, ok it was, but the flirtings over Sherlock,” The psycho says, “Daddy's had enough now!” He pushes closer nearly at John's side. “I’ve shown you what I can do. I cut lose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. Take this friendly warning; back off.” His voice has deepened to the only serious tone the doctor has heard thus far, it is dangerous.

“I've enjoyed this little game to ours,” Jim tells him in his normal voice, “Playing gay Jim from IT, did you like that bit with the underwear?” He asks genuinely.

“People have died!” Sherlock blurts out surprising John.

Jim narrows his eyes, “That's what people DO!” He screams the last word. It vibrates off the walls.

Sherlock lets the word fade, “I will stop you.” He tells the man softly.

Jim snorts. “No you won't,” His singsong tone making a comeback.

The taller man shifts his attention to John. “Are you alright? ” He asks his eyes carefully traveling over the man.

John glances nervously at Jim who is at his side. He doesn't want to enrage the very unstable man at his side if he doesn't have to, especially with Sherlock so close to them.

The psycho smiles brightly, seeming to be enjoying the doctor’s hesitation. “Go on Johnny boy, you can speak.” He encourages, clearly enjoying the power he had over John.

The doctor nods but doesn’t speak, he isn’t about to follow Moriarty’s orders again if he can help it. If only Sherlock would take a few steps back or even leave the damn building, John wouldn't hesitate in getting rid of the psycho even if it meant blowing himself up.

Sherlock eyes him a bit longer then fixes his gaze on Jim and holds out the memory stick, “Take it.”

The man looks at the flash drive and chuckle, “Oh the top secret missile plans,” He strolls forward and grabs it. Jim tosses it up in the air, catching it easily, “Boring,” He throwing it into the water, “I could have gotten that anywhere.”

John, seizing the opportunity, lungs forward wrapping his arms around the man with one around his neck, “Sherlock run!” He yells holding tightly to Moriarty.

The man gives a strangled laugh, “Good, very good John.” Jim gasps cheerfully, “He’s a feisty one.”

Sherlock glances back at the sniper above them though he couldn’t actually see him. He ignores John, not even attempting to make an escape.

“Now Jim, if your sniper pulls the trigger we all go up.” John hisses at the other man. His mind is sending warnings to Sherlock and yelling at him to run.

Moriarty clicks his tongue, “Isn’t he sweet? I’m starting to see why you keep him around, then again people do get sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal, but soldier you seem to have shown your hand.” He tells him gesturing with his head at Sherlock.

John glances up and his stomach drops.

A red sniper dot is glowing in the center of Sherlock forehead.

Instantly the doctor backs away throwing his hands up in surrender. His heart is racing and he can’t take his eyes off the dot until it disappears then he’s able to breathe again.

Moriarty grins at the man as he straightens himself and smoothen his suit. “Westwood.” He tells them gesturing to his clothing. He steps over to John, who flinches away, and stokes a hand down his face. Leaning Jim speaks quietly, his lips brushing over John's ear; “I’ve come to see what you do for him. Your loyalty is blinding, it’s inspiring. I will be interested to see what you and him will accomplish before he loses interest in you, of course.”

John shivers staring at the ground.

He turns away from John and looks at the other man. “Do you know what will happen if you do leave me alone, Sherlock to you?” Moriarty asks moving slowly towards Sherlock.

The taller man rolls his eyes, “Let me guess; you kill me.” He drawls.

Jim chuckles lightly, looking lazily at his fingernails, “Don’t be boring, no,” He says, “Of course I’m going to kill you...eventually. No I’m going to burn the heart out of you.” He emphasizes the last word with a gruff tone.

“I’ve been told on several occasions that I don’t have one,” Sherlock says not looking concerned in the least.

Moriarty smiles and looks pointedly at John. “We all know that isn’t exactly true.” He lets those words linger as he walks away heading for the door that he had come in through. “Well I better be off, it’s been nice having this little chat, lovely.” Jim muses as he gets to the door.

Sherlock grips the gun tighter and aims confidently at the man’s back. “And what if I were to shoot you right now?” He asks cocking the gun.

“Then you would get to cherish the look of surprise on my face,” Moriarty replies turning to look at him with his back pushing back into the door, “I would be very surprised, Sherlock, if not a bit disappointed, though you wouldn’t get to cherish that for long.” He nods at the red dot dancing across John’s chest.

The tall man slightly lowers his arm, directing the weapon away from the other man, his eyes glancing between John and Jim.

Jim smirks smugly at that sign of surrender. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.” He says turning and opening the door.

“See you later.” Sherlock tells him slowly.

“No you won’t.” Moriarty calls out in his singsong voice and he’s gone through the door without another word.

As soon as the door is shut all the way Sherlock is moving forward, the gun find itself back in his pocket, and he nearly rips the coat from John to get to the vest underneath. He fumbles with the ties in his haste and curses sharply with very delay before managing to get the damned thing off and away from them, sliding it across the concrete floor.

The doctor lets the man maneuver him, he’s too numb to do anything else. No vision, dream, or even war had terrified him as much as Jim Moriarty. He is unpredictable and psychotic with self-preservation his main goal but it seemed he would sacrifice anything to keep himself from getting bored. With the vest off, John slumps to the ground, pulling blindly at the ear-piece still lodged in his ear.

Sherlock moves away, his hurried steps echoing around the room as he gets to the door Moriarty had left through and opens it. With it all clear he quickly makes his way back over to John. “John, are you alright? Did he hurt you? John speak to me! He’s gone, he’s gone.” The man is speaking rapidly and cradling John’s face gently, kneeling in front of him.

A takes John several minutes before relief finally floods his system, his heart is still beating out of control and he’s breathing heavily with the remaining adrenaline. “I’m glad no one saw that.” He manages to say quietly.

Sherlock gives him a confused look not understanding.

“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool.” The doctor jokes chuckling nearly hysterically.

Sherlock gives his own dry laugh, grabbing John's hand and giving it a comforting squeeze. “That thing you did...that you offered to do...that was good.” He looks at John with a small smile.

John tries to return to smile but he’s still a bit shaky. He takes a deep breath and leans his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. His mind feels heavy, overused, and John wishes they were home so he could collapse on his bed to sleep for a day or more. The strain from the past few months hadn’t eased and now that the looming threat that is Moriarty is adding to the stress, John doesn’t know what to do.

His head suddenly explodes with agony causing John to cry out with it. There’s rage and a tiny bit of fear with the emotions attacking him. Darkness presses in and an incoherent voice screams. It’s getting louder and louder. John knows instantly what is happening, he struggles to breathe through the pain. It's the intensity of it that nearly crushes him. “Sherlock,” He gasps beating back the onslaught, “He’s coming back!”

Sherlock lingers a moment longer in front of the writhing man before standing up swiftly and aiming the gun. Seconds later the sniper lasers return and another moment; Jim enters.

The noise in John’s head silences instantly with the return of the psychopath. He turns his eyes wildly on the door not able to keep the horror off his face, knowing the only reason the man would return is to finish them off.

“Sorry boys, I’m so changeable!” Moriarty trills cheerfully, “It’s a weakness of mine, though to be fair it is my only weakness.” He slips his hands into his pockets smiling at the two. “I simply can’t allow you to continue, I just can’t. Bad for business. I would ask you to join me but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

Sherlock looks down at John, who nods, before focusing on Jim again with the gun aimed on him. “And my answers have already crossed yours.” He responds, slowly lower the gun to point at the vest close by.

The psycho’s eyes fall to the vest and his smile widens looking like a child at Christmas.

The moment drags on. John can barely breathe as he tries to be as small as possible from his position. The atmosphere is building with intensity, anything could happen at this point. The anticipation is the worse, it flips John’s stomach, making him slightly nauseous though that could be from the stress. It seems like an eternity with no end in sight when music starts playing.

It startles everyone.

‘Stayin’ Alive’ by the Bee Gees is ringing out from somewhere but it’s difficult to locate the source when the sound is echoing everywhere.

Sherlock is giving Jim a curious look and the man himself is grimacing with annoyance.

“Mind if I get that?” He asks pulling out a ringing phone from his pocket.

Sherlock shrugs, looking the epitome of calm. “Of course not.”

Moriarty lifts the phone to his ear, “Hello?...What do you want?” He snaps. ‘Sorry’ he mouths at Sherlock before turning to listen to the person on the line.

The taller man looks at John with a raised eyebrow as they listen to the one sided conversation.

“SAY THAT AGAIN!” Jim yells into the phone, spinning back toward the others, glaring at the space in front of him. “Say that again and know, that if you are lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you.” He emphasizes the last few words with a hiss.

Sherlock frowns, staring at Moriarty with his calculating eyes.

“You better be telling me the truth,” The man repeats before lowering the phone slightly as he moves closer. He’s eyeing them with an interested look. “Sorry, wrong day to die.” He tells them looking a bit embarrassed.

“Oh, did you get a better offer?” Sherlock asks gesturing at the phone.

Jim glances at it but doesn’t reply as he turns, heading for the door. “You’ll be hearing from me Sherlock.” He yells as a farewell bringing the phone back up to his ear, “If what you say is true, you’ll be rich. If not, I’ll make you into shoes.” Is the last thing the two hear as Moriarty leaves the room and the door snaps shut behind him.

The lasers vanish and the air lightens considerably. John is stunned glancing at Sherlock, who is reflecting the same look. “What was that?” He asks.

Sherlock pockets the gun. “Who. Who was that; Someone changed his mind.” He corrects.


	19. Somethings to Come

Barely half an hour later the swimming pool is crawling with police, Sherlock goes over every detail of the event to Lestrade while John is being looked over by paramedics.

The doctor doesn’t complain as the people work around him, usually he argued and let them know he is able to care for his own injuries but at the moment John is in shock. He barely feels them patching him up. The only injuries he has are the ones he received from the Golem though the drug Jim had used on him did dehydrate him. They give him painkillers before giving him the okay to go home, John finds a wall to lean against, waiting for Sherlock to finish.

The tall man stalks towards John, looks irritated as he mutters to himself; “Idiots, useless, completed moronic.” He doesn’t pause as he pass the doctor.

John follows silently.

They grab a cab and Sherlock sits hunched in his seat, texting furiously and glaring at the screen. “Stupid, fat lard.” The man continues his fingers moving rapidly without pausing.

John is slumped in his seat, staring dully out the window. He’d gone numb again but he is too tired, too stressed, too everything else he needed to be. He didn’t want to think anymore, closing his eyes, and letting his mind drift. John stayed that way until the car came to a stop.

He slides out and slowly moves inside after Sherlock, who had nearly sprinted ahead without waiting. The doctor climbs up the stairs dragging his feet, he hangs his jacket on the hook next to the door, and kicked off his shoes. John goes over to his chair and collapses into it.

The overstuffed chair that he had claimed as his almost on day one after moving in isn’t the comfiest, it is an old chair. The stuffing had been beaten down and didn’t really deserve the name ‘overstuffed”. The arms are starting to look worn and peeling. Mrs. Hudson isn't even sure where the chair had come from and assumed it had always been in the flat. All and all the chair looked about ready to retire to the dump but at this moment in time John had never sat in anything more comfortable in his life.

He sinks into the cushions as much as he possibly can, his tense muscle slowly starting to unwind. The pains from John's injuries are starting to come through with the lax and are twinging at the edges of his mind. He releases several deep breaths and messages at the bruises on his arms. John sighs, closing his eyes. Around him the flat is silent and helping with calming that comes natural from the place itself.

There’s movement that startles him slight but John keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t feel like opening them just yet. The darkness his lids bring is grounding John's sluggish mind.

Quietly shuffling steps move closer, stopping in front of the doctor’s chair. For several minutes there isn’t any noise other than the usual sounds of the city. The quiet rumbling of passing cars and planes overhead. Softly a hand touches his arm, the weight is slight but it seeps warmth into John’s whole being.

The doctor slowly opens his eyes.

Sherlock is towering above him just looking down at him. A gentle smile on his face, a smile that John alone had the privilege to see. He look rumpled, the bruises from the Golem stand out purple against his pale skin, his hair is a riot, thought his eyes look down on John with interest.

That too warms John and he even starts to believe he had nothing to worry about because this man and his smile is the only thing he needs. He gently slips his fingers in between Sherlock's and squeezes them. The moment is peaceful and exactly what they need after the turmoil of the evening.

“I’m sorry.” The tall man murmurs.

The doctor gives him a confused look, Sherlock is looking at him with sad eyes.

“I got you into this,” Sherlock tells him kneeling down in front of John, “I put you in Moriarty’s sights and I was too arrogant thinking you would be safe.”

John shakes his head, “I’m the one who sought you out remember. I saved your life and that brought us together, I would change that no matter what,” He argues, "You are the only thing that I've ever wanted in my life."

“But John..” The man tries but is silenced by John.

“No one is responsible in this, it’s only Moriarty. He’s been killing people for years, remember Carl Powers. Even if I didn’t know you I’d still be in danger with that nutter out there. Because of this we have a better idea of what we’ll be facing.” He points out gently.

Sherlock sighs and his smile widened. “Have I told you lately that you’re brilliant?” He asks laying his head in John’s lap.

The doctor finally begins to feel his body relaxing completely with the comfort of Sherlock pressed against him. John starts running his fingers through the man’s hair, enjoying the softness of the curls running over his skin. They can go back and forth on this forever, which is probably what will happen in the coming weeks. In the moment he’s still a bit in shock, it would set in after a few days, and the real stress of the whole thing would start to weigh heavily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading and I'm going to add to this story. I thought I was done until I got an idea. So expect more from this.

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read Part One yet I highly suggest it.


End file.
